ROSINANTE 

TO  THE  ROAD  AGAIN 


JOHN  DOS  PASSOS 


A.  iJrownell  Lamb 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


ROSINANTE 

TO  THE  ROAD  AGAIN 
JOHN  DOS  PASSOS 


Books  by  John  Dos  Passos 

NOVELS: 

Three  Soldiers 

One  Man's  Initiation 

ESSAYS: 

Rosinttnte  to  the  Road  Again 

POEMS: 

A  Pushcart  at  the  Curb 

(In  Preparation) 


ROSINANTE 

TO  THE  ROAD  AGAIN 

By 
JOHN  DOS  PASSOS 


GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


Copyright,  1922, 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

I :    A  Gesture  and  a  Quest,  g 
II :    The  Donkey  Boy,  24 
III:    The  Baker  of  Almorox,  47 
IV:    Talk  by  the  Road,  71 
V:    A  Novelist  of  Revolution,  80 
VI:    Talk  by  the  Road,   101 
VII :    Cordova  No  Longer  of  the  Caliphs,  104 
VIII:    Talk  by  the  Road,   115 
IX:    An  Inverted  Midas,  I2O 
X:    Talk  by  the  Road,  133 
XI:    Antonio  Machado;  Poet  of  Castile,  140 
XII:    A  Catalan  Poet,  159 
XIII:    Talk  by  the  Road,  176 
XIV:    Benaventes  Madrid,   182 
XV:    Talk  by  the  Road,  196 
XVI :    A  Funeral  in  Madrid,  202 
XVII:    Toledo,  230 


ROSINANTE 

TO  THE  ROAD  AGAIN 


ROSINANTE 
TO  THE  ROAD  AGAIN 

I:  A  Gesture  and  a  Quest 

rpELEMACHUS  had  wandered  so  far  in 
A  search  of  his  father  he  had  quite  forgotten 
what  he  was  looking  for.  He  sat  on  a  yellow 
plush  bench  in  the  cafe  El  Oro  del  Rhin,  Plaza 
Santa  Ana,  Madrid,  swabbing  up  with  a  bit  of 
bread  the  last  smudges  of  brown  sauce  off  a 
plate  of  which  the  edges  were  piled  with  the  dis 
membered  skeleton  of  a  pigeon.  Opposite  his 
plate  was  a  similar  plate  his  companion  had 
already  polished.  Telemachus  put  the  last  piece 
of  bread  into  his  mouth,  drank  down  a  glass  of 
beer  at  one  spasmodic  gulp,  sighed,  leaned  across 
the  table  and  said : 

"I  wonder  why  I'm  here." 

"Why  anywhere  else  than  here?"  said  Lyaeus, 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

a  young  man  with  hollow  cheeks  and  slow-moving 
hands,  about  whose  mouth  a  faint  pained  smile 
was  continually  hovering,  and  he  too  drank  down 

his  beer. 

At  the  end  of  a  perspective  of  white  marble 
tables,  faces  thrust  forward  over  yellow  plush 
cushions  under  twining  veils  of  tobacco  smoke, 
four  German  women  on  a  little  dais  were  playing 
Tarmhauser.  Smells  of  beer,  sawdust,  shrimps, 
roast  pigeon. 

"Do  you  know  Jorge  Manrique?  That's  one 
reason,  Tel,"  the  other  man  continued  slowly. 
With  one  hand  he  gestured  to  the  waiter  for 
more  beer,  the  other  he  waved  across  his  face  as 
if  to  brush  away  the  music;  then  he  recited,  pro 
nouncing  the  words  haltingly: 

'Recuerde  el  alma  dormida, 
Avive  el  seso  y  despierte 
Contemplando 
Como  se  pasa  la  vida, 
Como  se  viene  la  muerte 
Tan  callando: 
Cuan  presto  se  va  el  placer, 
Como  despues  de  acordado 
[10] 


A  Gesture  and  a  Quest 

Da  dolor, 

C6mo  a  nuestro  parecer 

Cualquier  tiempo  pasado 


mejor.' 

"It's  always  death,"  said  Telemachus,  "but  we 
must  go  on." 

It  had  been  raining.  Lights  rippled  red  and 
orange  and  yellow  and  green  on  the  clean  paving- 
stones.  A  cold  wind  off  the  Sierra  shrilled 
through  clattering  streets.  As  they  walked,  the 
other  man  was  telling  how  this  Castilian  noble 
man,  courtier,  man-at-arms,  had  shut  himself  up 
when  his  father,  the  Master  of  Santiago,  died  and 
had  written  this  poem,  created  this  tremendous 
rhythm  of  death  sweeping  like  a  wind  over  the 
world.  He  had  never  written  anything  else. 
They  thought  of  him  in  the  court  of  his  great 
dust-colored  mansion  at  Ocana,  where  the  broad 
eaves  were  full  of  a  cooing  of  pigeons  and  the 
wide  halls  had  dark  rafters  painted  with  ara 
besques  in  vermilion,  in  a  suit  of  black  velvet, 
writing  at  a  table  under  a  lemon  tree.  Down 
the  sun-scarred  street,  in  the  cathedral  that  was 
building  in  those  days,  full  of  a  smell  of  scaffold- 

[in 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

ing  and  stone  dust,  there  must  have  stood  a  tre 
mendous  catafalque  where  lay  with  his  arms 
around  him  the  Master  of  Santiago ;  in  the  carved 
seats  of  the  choirs  the  stout  canons  intoned  an 
endless  growling  litany ;  at  the  sacristy  door,  the 
flare  of  the  candles  flashing  occasionally  on  the 
jewels  of  his  mitre,  the  bishop  fingered  his  crosier 
restlessly,  asking  his  favorite  choir-boy  from  time 
to  time  why  Don  Jorge  had  not  arrived.  And 
messengers  must  have  come  running  to  Don 
Jorge,  telling  him  the  service  was  on  the  point 
of  beginning,  and  he  must  have  waved  them 
away  with  a  grave  gesture  of  a  long  white  hand, 
while  in  his  mind  the  distant  sound  of  chanting, 
the  jingle  of  the  silver  bit  of  his  roan  horse 
stamping  nervously  where  he  was  tied  to  a  twined 
Moorish  column,  memories  of  cavalcades  filing 
with  braying  of  trumpets  and  flutter  of  crimson 
damask  into  conquered  towns,  of  court  ladies 
dancing,  and  the  noise  of  pigeons  in  the  eaves, 
drew  together  like  strings  plucked  in  succession 
on  a  guitar  into  a  great  wave  of  rhythm  in  which 
his  life  was  sucked  away  into  this  one  poem  in 
praise  of  death. 

[12] 


A  Gesture  and  a  Quest 

Nuestras  vidas  son  los  rios 
Que  van  a  dar  en  la  mar, 
Que  es  el  morir.  .  .  . 

Telemachus  was  saying  the  words  over  softly 
to  himself  as  they  went  into  the  theatre.  The 
orchestra  was  playing  a  Sevillana ;  as  they  found 
their  seats  they  caught  glimpses  beyond  people's 
heads  and  shoulders  of  a  huge  woman  with  a 
comb  that  pushed  the  tip  of  her  mantilla  a  foot 
and  a  half  above  her  head,  dancing  with  ponder 
ous  dignity.  Her  dress  was  pink  flounced  with 
lace;  under  it  the  bulge  of  breasts  and  belly  and 
three  chins  quaked  with  every  thump  of  her  tiny 
heels  on  the  stage.  As  they  sat  down  she  re 
treated  bowing  like  a  full-rigged  ship  in  a  squall. 
The  curtain  fell,  the  theatre  became  very  still; 
next  was  Pastora. 

Strumming  of  a  guitar,  whirring  fast,  dry  like 
locusts  in  a  hedge  on  a  summer  day.  Pauses  that 
catch  your  blood  and  freeze  it  suddenly  still  like 
the  rustling  of  a  branch  in  silent  woods  at  night. 
A  gipsy  in  a  red  sash  is  playing,  slouched  into  a 
cheap  cane  chair,  behind  him  a  faded  crimson 
curtain.  Off  stage  heels  beaten  on  the  floor  catch 

[13] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

up  the  rhythm  with  tentative  interest,  drowsily; 
then  suddenly  added,  sharp  click  of  fingers 
snapped  in  time;  the  rhythm  slows,  hovers  like 
a  bee  over  a  clover  flower.  A  little  taut  sound 
of  air  sucked  in  suddenly  goes  down  the  rows  of 
seats.  With  faintest  tapping  of  heels,  faintest 
snapping  of  the  fingers  of  a  brown  hand  held 
over  her  head,  erect,  wrapped  tight  in  yellow 
shawl  where  the  embroidered  flowers  make  a 
splotch  of  maroon  over  one  breast,  a  flecking  of 
green  and  purple  over  shoulders  and  thighs, 
Pastora  Imperio  comes  across  the  stage,  quietly, 
unhurriedly. 

In  the  mind  of  Telemachus  the  words  return: 

Como  se  viene  la  muerte 
Tan  callando. 

Her  face  is  brown,  with  a  pointed  chin ;  her  eye 
brows  that  nearly  meet  over  her  nose  rise  in  a 
flattened  "A"  towards  the  fervid  black  gleam 
of  her  hair;  her  lips  are  pursed  in  a  half-smile 
as  if  she  were  stifling  a  secret.  She  walks  round 
the  stage  slowly,  one  hand  at  her  waist,  the  shawl 
tight  over  her  elbow,  her  thighs  lithe  and  restless, 

[14] 


A  Gesture  and  a  Quest 

a  panther  in  a  cage.  At  the  back  of  the  stage  she 
turns  suddenly,  advances;  the  snapping  of  her 
fingers  gets  loud,  insistent;  a  thrill  whirrs 
through  the  guitar  like  a  covey  of  partridges 
scared  in  a  field.  Red  heels  tap  threateningly. 

Decidme:  la  hermosura, 
La  gentil  frescura  y  tez 
De  la  cara 

El  color  y  la  blancura, 
Cuando  viene  la  viejez 
dial  se  para? 

She  is  right  at  the  footlights;  her  face,  brows 
drawn  together  into  a  frown,  has  gone  into 
shadow;  the  shawl  flames,  the  maroon  flower 
over  her  breast  glows  like  a  coal.  The  guitar  is 
silent,  her  fingers  go  on  snapping  at  intervals 
with  dreadful  foreboding.  Then  she  draws  her 
self  up  with  a  deep  breath,  the  muscles  of  her 
belly  go  taut  under  the  tight  silk  wrinkles  of 
the  shawl,  and  she  is  off  again,  light,  joyful,  turn 
ing  indulgent  glances  towards  the  audience,  as  a 
nurse  might  look  in  the  eyes  of  a  child  she  has 
unintentionally  frightened  with  a  too  dreadful 
fairy  story. 

[15] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

The  rhythm  of  the  guitar  has  changed  again; 
her  shawl  is  loose  about  her,  the  long  fringe  flut 
ters;  she  walks  with  slow  steps,  in  pomp,  a  ship 
decked  out  for  a  festival,  a  queen  in  plumes  and 
brocade.  .  .  . 

<;Que  se  hicieron  las  damas, 
Sus  tocados,  sus  vestidos, 
Sus  olores? 

<jQue  se  hicieron  las  llamas 
De  los  fuegos  encendidos 
De  amadoresr 

And  she  has  gone,  and  the  gipsy  guitar-player 
is  scratching  his  neck  with  a  hand  the  color  of 
tobacco,  while  the  guitar  rests  against  his  legs. 
He  shows  all  his  teeth  in  a  world-engulfing  yawn. 

When  they  came  out  of  the  theatre,  the  streets 
were  dry  and  the  stars  blinked  in  the  cold  wind 
above  the  houses.  At  the  curb  old  women  sold 
chestnuts  and  little  ragged  boys  shouted  the  news 
papers. 

"And  now  do  you  wonder,  Tel,  why  you  are 
here?" 

They  went  into  a  cafe  and  mechanically  or 
dered  beer.  The  seats  were  red  plush  this  time 

[16] 


A  Gesture  and  a  Quest 

and  much  worn.  All  about  them  groups  of  whis 
kered  men  leaning  over  tables,  astride  chairs, 
talking. 

"It's  the  gesture  that's  so  overpowering;  don't 
you  feel  it  in  your  arms?  Something  sudden 
and  tremendously  muscular." 

"When  Belmonte  turned  his  back  suddenly 
on  the  bull  and  walked  away  dragging  the  red 
cloak  on  the  ground  behind  him  I  felt  it,"  said 
Lyaeus. 

"That  gesture,  a  yellow  flame  against  maroon 
and  purple  cadences  ...  an  instant  swagger 
of  defiance  in  the  midst  of  a  litany  to  death  the 
all-powerful.  That  is  Spain.  .  .  .  Castile  at 
any  rate." 

"Is  'swagger'  the  right  word?" 

"Find  a  better." 

"For  the  gesture  a  medieval  knight  made  when 
he  threw  his  mailed  glove  at  his  enemy's  feet  or 
a  rose  in  his  lady's  window,  that  a  mule-driver 
makes  when  he  tosses  off  a  glass  of  aguardiente, 
that  Pastora  Imperio  makes  dancing.  . 
Word !  Rubbish !"  And  Lyaeus  burst  out  laugh- 

[17] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

ing.  He  laughed  deep  in  his  throat  with  his  head 
thrown  back. 

Telemachus  was  inclined  to  be  offended. 

"Did  you  notice  how  extraordinarily  near  she 
kept  to  the  rhythm  of  Jorge  Manrique?"  he 
asked  coldly. 

"Of  course.  Of  course,"  shouted  Lyaeus,  still 
laughing. 

The  waiter  came  with  two  mugs  of  beer. 

"Take  it  away,"  shouted  Lyaeus.  "Who 
ordered  beer?  Bring  something  strong,  cham 
pagne.  Drink  the  beer  yourself." 

The  waiter  was  scrawny  and  yellow,  with  bil 
ious  eyes,  but  he  could  not  resist  the  laughter  of 
Lyaeus.  He  made  a  pretense  of  drinking  the 
beer. 

Telemachus  was  now  very  angry.  Though 
he  had  forgotten  his  quest  and  the  maxims  of 
Penelope,  there  hovered  in  his  mind  a  disquiet 
ing  thought  of  an  eventual  accounting  for  his 
actions  before  a  dimly  imagined  group  of  women 
with  inquisitive  eyes.  This  Lyaeus,  he  thought 
to  himself,  was  too  free  and  easy.  Then  there 
came  suddenly  to  his  mind  the  dancer  standing 

[18] 


A  Gesture  and  a  Quest 

tense  as  a  caryatid  before  the  footlights,  her  face 
in  shadow,  her  shawl  flaming  yellow;  the  strong 
modulations  of  her  torso  seemed  burned  in  his 
flesh.  He  drew  a  deep  breath.  His  body  tight 
ened  like  a  catapult. 

"Oh  to  recapture  that  gesture,"  he  muttered. 
The  vague  inquisitorial  woman-figures  had  sunk 
fathoms  deep  in  his  mind. 

Lyaeus  handed  him  a  shallow  tinkling  glass. 

"There  are  all  gestures,"  he  said. 

Outside  the  plate-glass  window  a  countryman 
passed  singing.  His  voice  dwelt  on  a  deep 
trembling  note,  rose  high,  faltered,  skidded  down 
the  scale,  then  rose  suddenly,  frighteningly  like  a 
skyrocket,  into  a  new  burst  of  singing. 

"There  it  is  again,"  Telemachus  cried.  He 
jumped  up  and  ran  out  on  the  street.  The  broad 
pavement  was  empty.  A  bitter  wind  shrilled 
among  arc-lights  white  like  dead  eyes. 

"Idiot,"  Lyaeus  said  between  gusts  of  laughter 
when  Telemachus  sat  down  again.  "Idiot  Tel. 
Here  you'll  find  it."  And  despite  Telemachus's 
protestations  he  filled  up  the  glasses.  A  great 
change  had  come  over  Lyaeus.  His  face  looked 

[19] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

fuller  and  flushed.  His  lips  were  moist  and  very 
red.  There  was  an  occasional  crisp  curl  in  the 
black  hair  about  his  temples. 

And  so  they  sat  drinking  a  long  while. 

At  last  Telemachus  got  unsteadily  to  his  feet. 

"I  can't  help  it.  ...  I  must  catch  that 
gesture,  formulate  it,  do  it.  It  is  tremendously, 
inconceivably,  unendingly  important  to  me." 

"Now  you  know  why  you're  here,"  said 
Lyaeus  quietly. 

"Why  are  you  here?" 

"To  drink,"  said  Lyaeus. 

"Let's  go." 

"Why?" 

"To  catch  that  gesture,  Lyaeus,"  said  Tele 
machus  in  an  over-solemn  voice. 

"Like  a  comedy  professor  with  a  butterfly- 
net,"  roared  Lyaeus.  His  laughter  so  filled  the 
cafe  that  people  at  far-away  tables  smiled  with 
out  knowing  it. 

"It's  burned  into  my  blood.  It  must  be  formu 
lated,  made  permanent." 

"Killed,"  said  Lyaeus  with  sudden  serious 
ness;  "better  drink  it  with  your  wine." 

[20] 


A  Gesture  and  a  Quest 

.  Silent  they  strode  down  an  arcaded  street. 
Cupolas,  voluted  baroque  f  a9ades,  a  square  tower, 
the  bulge  of  a  market  building,  tile  roofs,  chim 
neypots,  ate  into  the  star-dusted  sky  to  the  right 
and  left  of  them,  until  in  a  great  gust  of  wind 
they  came  out  on  an  empty  square,  where  were 
few  gas-lamps;  in  front  of  them  was  a  heavy 
arch  full  of  stars,  and  Orion  sprawling  above  it. 
Under  the  arch  a  pile  of  rags  asked  for  alms 
whiningly.  The  jingle  of  money  was  crisp  in  the 
cold  air. 

"Where  does  this  road  go?" 

"Toledo,"  said  the  beggar,  and  got  to  his  feet. 
He  was  an  old  man,  bearded,  evil-smelling. 

"Thank  you.  .  .  .  We  have  just  seen  Pas- 
tora,"  said  Lyaeus  jauntily. 

"Ah,  Pastoral  .  .  .  The  last  of  the  great 
dancers,"  said  the  beggar,  and  for  some  reason 
he  crossed  himself. 

The  road  was  frosty  and  crunched  silkily 
underfoot. 

Lyaeus  walked  along  shouting  lines  from  the 
poem  of  Jorge  Manrique. 

[21] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

'Como  se  pasa  la  vida 

Como  se  viene  la  muerte 

Tan  callando: 

Cuan  presto  se  va  el  placer 

Como  despues  de  acordado 

Da  dolor, 

Como  a  nuestro  parecer 

Cualquier  tiempo  pasado 

Fue  mejor.' 

"I  bet  you,  Tel,  they  have  good  wine  in 
Toledo." 

The  road  hunched  over  a  hill.  They  turned 
and  saw  Madrid  cut  out  of  darkness  against  the 
starlight.  Before  them  sown  plains,  gulches  full 
of  mist,  and  the  tremulous  lights  on  many  carts 
that  jogged  along,  each  behind  three  jingling 
slow  mules.  A  cock  crowed.  All  at  once  a  voice 
burst  suddenly  in  swaggering  tremolo  out  of  the 
darkness  of  the  road  beneath  them,  rising,  rising, 
then  fading  off,  then  flaring  up  hotly  like  a  red 
scarf  waved  on  a  windy  day,  like  the  swoop  of 
a  hawk,  like  a  rocket  intruding  among  the  stars. 

"Butterfly  net,  you  old  fool!"  Lyaeus's  laugh 
ter  volleyed  across  the  frozen  fields. 

Telemachus  answered  in  a  low  voice : 

"Let's  walk  faster." 

[22] 


A  Gesture  and  a  Quest 

He  walked  with  his  eyes  on  the  road.  He  could 
see  in  the  darkness,  Pastora,  wrapped  in  the  yel 
low  shawl  with  the  splotch  of  maroon-colored 
embroidery  moulding  one  breast,  stand  tremu 
lous  with  foreboding  before  the  footlights,  sud 
denly  draw  in  her  breath,  and  turn  with  a  great 
exultant  gesture  back  into  the  rhythm  of  her 
dance.  Only  the  victorious  culminating  instant 
of  the  gesture  was  blurred  to  him.  He  walked 
with  long  strides  along  the  crackling  road,  his 
muscles  aching  for  memory  of  it. 


[23] 


///  The  Donkey  Boy 

Where  the  husbandman's  toil  and 

Little  varies  to  strife  and  toil: 

But  the  milky  kernel  of  life, 

Wiik  her  numbered:  corn,  wine,  fruit,  oil! 

THE  path  zigzagged  down  through  the  olive 
trees  between  thin  chortling  glitter  of  irriga 
tion  ditches  that  occasionally  widened  into  green 
pools,  reed-fringed,  froggy,  about  which  bristled 
scrub  oleanders.  Through  the  shimmer  of  olive 
leaves  all  about  I  could  see  the  great  ruddy  heave 
of  the  mountains  streaked  with  the  emerald  of 
millet-fields,  and  above,  snowy  shoulders  against 
a  vault  of  indigo,  patches  of  wood  cut  out  hard 
as  metal  in  the  streaming  noon  light.  Tinkle  of 
a  donkey-bell  below  me,  then  at  the  turn  of  a 
path  the  donkey's  hindquarters,  mauve-grey, 
neatly  clipped  in  a  pattern  of  diamonds  and 
lozenges,  and  a  tail  meditatively  swishing  as  he 
picked  his  way  among  the  stones,  the  head  as 

[24] 


The  Donkey  Boy 

yet  hidden  by  the  osier  baskets  of  the  pack.  At 
the  next  turn  I  skipped  ahead  of  the  donkey 
and  walked  with  the  arriero,  a  dark  boy  in  tight 
blue  pants  and  short  grey  tunic  cut  to  the  waist, 
who  had  the  strong  cheek-bones,  hawk  nose  and 
slender  hips  of  an  Arab,  who  spoke  an  aspirated 
Andalusian  that  sounded  like  Arabic. 

We  greeted  each  other  cordially  as  travellers 
do  in  mountainous  places  where  the  paths  are 
narrow.  We  talked  about  the  weather  and  the 
wind  and  the  sugar  mills  at  Motril  and  women 
and  travel  and  the  vintage,  struggling  all  the 
while  like  drowning  men  to  understand  each 
other's  lingo.  When  it  came  out  that  I  was  an 
American  and  had  been  in  the  war,  he  became 
suddenly  interested;  of  course,  I  was  a  deserter, 
he  said,  clever  to  get  away.  There'd  been  two 
deserters  in  his  town  a  year  ago,  Alemanes;  per 
haps  friends  of  mine.  It  was  pointed  out  that  I 
and  the  Alemanes  had  been  at  different  ends  of 
the  gunbarrel.  He  laughed.  What  did  that 
matter?  Then  he  said  several  times,  "Que  burro 
la  guerra,  que  burro  la  guerra."  I  remonstrated, 
pointing  to  the  donkey  that  was  following  us  with 

[25] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

dainty  steps,  looking  at  us  with  a  quizzical  air 
from  under  his  long  eyelashes.  Could  anything 
be  wiser  than  a  burro  ? 

He  laughed  again,  twitching  back  his  full  lips 
to  show  the  brilliance  of  tightly  serried  teeth, 
stopped  in  his  tracks,  and  turned  to  look  at  the 
mountains.  He  swept  a  long  brown  hand  across 
them.  "Look,"  he  said,  "up  there  is  the  Alpuj  ar 
ras,  the  last  refuge  of  the  kings  of  the  Moors; 
there  are  bandits  up  there  sometimes.  You  have 
come  to  the  right  place;  here  we  are  free  men." 

The  donkey  scuttled  past  us  with  a  derisive 
glance  out  of  the  corner  of  an  eye  and  started 
skipping  from  side  to  side  of  the  path,  cropping 
here  and  there  a  bit  of  dry  grass.  We  followed, 
the  arriero  telling  how  his  brother  would  have 
been  conscripted  if  the  family  had  not  got  to 
gether  a  thousand  pesetas  to  buy  him  out.  That 
was  no  life  for  a  man.  He  spat  on  a  red  stone. 
They'd  never  catch  him,  he  was  sure  of  that. 
The  army  was  no  life  for  a  man. 

In  the  bottom  of  the  valley  was  a  wide  stream, 
which  we  forded  after  some  dispute  as  to  who 
should  ride  the  donkey,  the  donkey  all  the  while 

[26] 


The  Donkey  Boy 

wrinkling  his  nose  with  disgust  at  the  coldness 
of  the  speeding  water  and  the  sliminess  of  the 
stones.  When  we  came  out  on  the  broad  moraine 
of  pebbles  the  other  side  of  the  stream  we  met 
a  lean  blackish  man  with  yellow  horse-teeth,  who 
was  much  excited  when  he  heard  I  was  an  Amer 
ican. 

"America  is  the  world  of  the  future,"  he  cried 
and  gave  me  such  a  slap  on  the  back  I  nearly 
tumbled  off  the  donkey  on  whose  rump  I  was 
at  that  moment  astride. 

"En  America  no  se  divierte"  muttered  the 
arriero,  kicking  his  feet  that  were  cold  from  the 
ford  into  the  burning  saffron  dust  of  the  road. 

The  donkey  ran  ahead  kicking  at  pebbles, 
bucking,  trying  to  shake  off  the  big  pear-shaped 
baskets  of  osier  he  had  either  side  of  his  pack 
saddle,  delighted  with  smooth  dryness  after  so 
much  water  and  such  tenuous  stony  roads.  The 
three  of  us  followed  arguing,  the  sunlight  beat 
ing  wings  of  white  flame  about  us. 

"In  America  there  is  freedom,"  said  the  black 
ish  man,  "there  are  no  rural  guards;  roadmenders 
work  eight  hours  and  wear  silk  shirts  and  earn 

[27] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

.  .  .  un  dineral."  The  blackish  man  stopped, 
quite  out  of  breath  from  his  grappling  with  in 
finity.  Then  he  went  on:  "Your  children  are 
educated  free,  no  priests,  and  at  forty  every  man- 
jack  owns  an  automobile." 

"Ca"  said  the  arriero. 

"Si,  Tiombre"  said  the  blackish  man. 

For  a  long  while  the  arriero  walked  along  in 
silence,  watching  his  toes  bury  themselves  in 
dust  at  each  step.  Then  he  burst  out,  spacing 
his  words  with  conviction:  ffCa,  en  America  no 
se  hose  no3  a  qwe  trabahar  y  de'cansar.  .  .  . 
Not  on  your  life,  in  America  they  don't  do  any 
thing  except  work  and  rest  so's  to  get  ready  to 
work  again.  That's  no  life  for  a  man.  People 
don't  enjoy  themselves  there.  An  old  sailor 
from  Malaga  who  used  to  fish  for  sponges  told 
me,  and  he  knew.  It's  not  gold  people  need,  but 
bread  and  wine  and  .  .  .  life.  They  don't  do 
anything  there  except  work  and  rest  so  they'll 
be  ready  to  work  again.  .  .  ." 

Two  thoughts  jostled  in  my  mind  as  he  spoke; 
I  seemed  to  see  red-faced  gentlemen  in  knee 
breeches,  dog's-ear  wigs  askew  over  broad  fore- 

[28] 


The  Donkey  Boy 

heads,  reading  out  loud  with  unction  the  phrases, 
"inalienable  rights  .  .  .  pursuit  of  happiness," 
and  to  hear  the  cadence  out  of  Meredith's  The 
Day  of  the  Daughter  of  Hades: 

Where  the  husbandman's  toil  and  strife 

Little  varies  to  strife  and  toil: 

But  the  milky  kernel  of  life, 

With  her  numbered:  corn,  wine,  fruit,  oil! 

The  donkey  stopped  in  front  of  a  little  wine 
shop  under  a  trellis  where  dusty  gourd-leaves 
shut  out  the  blue  and  gold  dazzle  of  sun  and 
sky. 

"He  wants  to  say,  'Have  a  little  drink,  gentle 
men/  "  said  the  blackish  man. 

In  the  greenish  shadow  of  the  wineshop  a 
smell  of  anise  and  a  sound  of  water  dripping. 
When  he  had  smacked  his  lips  over  a  small  cup 
of  thick  yellow  wine  he  pointed  at  the  arriero. 
"He  says  people  don't  enjoy  life  in  America." 

"But  in  America  people  are  very  rich,"  shouted 
the  barkeeper,  a  beet-faced  man  whose  huge  girth 
was  bound  in  a  red  cotton  sash,  and  he  made  a 
gesture  suggestive  of  coins,  rubbing  thumb  and 
forefinger  together. 

[29] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

Everybody  roared  derision  at  the  arriero.  But 
he  persisted  and  went  out  shaking  his  head  and 
muttering  "That's  no  life  for  a  man." 

As  we  left  the  wineshop  where  the  blackish 
man  was  painting  with  broad  strokes  the  legend 
of  the  West,  the  arriero  explained  to  me  almost 
tearfully  that  he  had  not  meant  to  speak  ill  of 
my  country,  but  to  explain  why  he  did  not  want 
to  emigrate.  While  he  was  speaking  we  passed 
a  cartload  of  yellow  grapes  that  drenched  us 
in  jingle  of  mulebells  and  in  dizzying  sweetness 
of  bubbling  ferment.  A  sombre  man  with  beetling 
brows  strode  at  the  mule's  head;  in  the  cart, 
brown  feet  firmly  planted  in  the  steaming  slush 
of  grapes,  flushed  face  tilted  towards  the  feroci 
ous  white  sun,  a  small  child  with  a  black  curly 
pate  rode  in  triumph,  shouting,  teeth  flashing  as 
if  to  bite  into  the  sun. 

"What  you  mean  is,"  said  I  to  the  arriero, 
"that  this  is  the  life  for  a  man." 

He  tossed  his  head  back  in  a  laugh  of  approval. 

"Something  that's  neither  work  nor  getting 
ready  to  work?" 

[30] 


The  Donkey  Boy 

"That's  it,"  he  answered,  and  cried,  "arrh  he" 
to  the  donkey. 

We  hastened  our  steps.  My  sweaty  shirt  bel 
lied  suddenly  in  the  back  as  a  cool  wind  frisked 
about  us  at  the  corner  of  the  road. 

"Ah,  it  smells  of  the  sea,"  said  the  arriero. 
"We'll  see  the  sea  from  the  next  hill." 

That  night  as  I  stumbled  out  of  the  inn  door 
in  Motril,  overfull  of  food  and  drink,  the  full 
moon  bulged  through  the  arches  of  the  cupola  of 
the  pink  and  saffron  church.  Everywhere  steel- 
green  shadows  striped  with  tangible  moonlight. 
As  I  sat  beside  my  knapsack  in  the  plaza,  grop 
ing  for  a  thought  in  the  bewildering  dazzle  of 
the  night,  three  disconnected  mules,  egged  on  by 
a  hoarse  shouting,  jingled  out  of  the  shadow. 
When  they  stopped  with  a  jerk  in  the  full  moon- 
glare  beside  the  fountain,  it  became  evident  that 
they  were  attached  to  a  coach,  a  spidery  coach 
tilted  forward  as  if  it  were  perpetually  going 
down  hill;  from  inside  smothered  voices  like  the 
strangled  clucking  of  fowls  being  shipped  to 
market  in  a  coop. 

On  the  driver's  seat  one's  feet  were  on  the 
[31] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

shafts  and  one  had  a  view  of  every  rag  and  shoe 
lace  the  harness  was  patched  with.  Creaking, 
groaning,  with  wabbling  of  wheels,  grumble  of 
inside  passengers,  cracking  of  whip  and  long 
strings  of  oaths  from  the  driver,  the  coach  lurched 
out  of  town  and  across  a  fat  plain  full  of  gurgle 
of  irrigation  ditches,  shrilling  of  toads,  falsetto 
rustle  of  broad  leaves  of  the  sugar  cane.  Occa 
sionally  the  gleam  of  the  soaring  moon  on 
banana  leaves  and  a  broad  silver  path  on  the  sea. 
Landwards  the  hills  like  piles  of  ash  in  the  moon 
light,  and  far  away  a  cloudy  inkling  of  moun 
tains. 

Beside  me,  mouth  open,  shouting  rich  pedigrees 
at  the  leading  mule,  Cordovan  hat  on  the  back 
of  his  head,  from  under  which  sprouted  a  lock 
of  black  hair  that  hung  between  his  eyes  over  his 
nose  and  made  him  look  like  a  goblin,  the  driver 
bounced  and  squirmed  and  kicked  at  the  flanks 
of  the  mules  that  roamed  drunkenly  from  side 
to  side  of  the  uneven  road.  Down  into  a  gulch, 
across  a  shingle,  up  over  a  plank  bridge,  then 
down  again  into  the  bed  of  the  river  I  had  forded 
that  morning  with  my  friend  the  arriero,  along 

[32] 


The  Donkey  Boy 

a  beach  with  fishing  boats  and  little  huts  where 
the  fishermen  slept;  then  barking  of  dogs,  an 
other  bridge  and  we  roared  and  crackled  up  a 
steep  village  street  to  come  to  a  stop  suddenly, 
catastrophically,  in  front  of  a  tavern  in  the  main 
square. 

"We  are  late,"  said  the  goblin  driver,  turning 
to  me  suddenly,  "I  have  not  slept  for  four  nights, 
dancing,  every  night  dancing." 

He  sucked  the  air  in  through  his  teeth  and 
stretched  out  his  arms  and  legs  in  the  moonlight. 
"Ah,  women  .  .  .  women,"  he  added  philo 
sophically.  "Have  you  a  cigarette?" 

"Ah,  la  juventud"  said  the  old  man  who  had 
brought  the  mailbag  He  looked  up  at  us  scratch 
ing  his  head.  "It's  to  enjoy.  A  moment,  a  rao- 
mentito,  and  it's  gone !  Old  men  work  in  the  day 
time,  but  young  men  work  at  night.  .  .  .  Ay 
de  mi"  and  he  burst  into  a  peal  of  laughter. 

And  as  if  some  one  were  whispering  them,  the 
words  of  Jorge  Manrique  sifted  out  of  the 
night: 

</Que  se  hizo  el  Rey  Don  Juan? 
Los  infantes  de  Aragon 
[33] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

<;Que  se  hicieron? 
Que  fue  de  tanto  galan, 
Que  fue  de  tanta  invencion, 
Como  truxeron? 

Everybody  went  into  the  tavern,  from  which 
came  a  sound  of  singing  and  of  clapping  in  time, 
and  as  hearty  a  tinkle  of  glasses  and  banging  on 
tables  as  might  have  come  out  of  the  Mermaid 
in  the  days  of  the  Virgin  Queen.  Outside  the 
moon  soared,  soared  brilliant,  a  greenish  blotch 
on  it  like  the  time-stain  on  a  chased  silver  bowl 
on  an  altar.  The  broken  lion's  head  of  the  foun 
tain  dribbled  one  tinkling  stream  of  quicksilver. 
On  the  seawind  came  smells  of  rotting  garbage 
and  thyme  burning  in  hearths  and  jessamine 
flowers.  Down  the  street  geraniums  in  a  win 
dow  smouldered  in  the  moonlight;  in  the  dark 
above  them  the  merest  contour  of  a  face,  once 
the  gleam  of  two  eyes ;  opposite  against  the  white 
wall  standing  very  quiet  a  man  looking  up  with 
dilated  nostrils — el  amor. 

As  the  coach  jangled  its  lumbering  unsteady 
way  out  of  town,  our  ears  still  throbbed  with  the 
rhythm  of  the  tavern,  of  hard  brown  hands 

[34] 


The  Donkey  Boy 

clapped  in  time,  of  heels  thumping  on  oak  floors. 
From  the  last  house  of  the  village  a  man  hallooed. 
With  its  noise  of  cupboards  of  china  overturned 
the  coach  crashed  to  stillness.  A  wiry,  white- 
faced  man  with  a  little  waxed  moustache  like  the 
springs  of  a  mousetrap  climbed  on  the  front  seat, 
while  burly  people  heaved  quantities  of  corded 
trunks  on  behind. 

"How  late,  two  hours  late,"  the  man  splut 
tered,  jerking  his  checked  cap  from  side  to  side. 
"Since  this  morning  nothing  to  eat  but  two  boiled 
eggs.  .  .  .  Think  of  that.  jQue  incultura! 
iQue  pueblo  indecent e!  All  day  only  two  boiled 
eggs." 

"I  had  business  in  Motril,  Don  Antonio,"  said 
the  goblin  driver  grinning. 

"Business!"  cried  Don  Antonio^  laughing 
squeakily,  "and  after  all  what  a  night!" 

Something  impelled  me  to  tell  Don  Antonio 
the  story  of  King  Mycerinus  of  Egypt  that 
Herodotus  tells,  how  hearing  from  an  oracle  he 
would  only  live  ten  years,  the  king  called  for 
torches  and  would  not  sleep,  so  crammed  twenty 
years'  living  into  ten.  The  goblin  driver  listened 

[35] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

in  intervals  between  his  hoarse  investigations  of 
the  private  life  of  the  grandmother  of  the  leading 
mule. 

Don  Antonio  slapped  his  thigh  and  lit  a  cig 
arette  and  cried,  "In  Andalusia  we  all  do  that, 
don't  we,  Paco?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  goblin  driver,  nodding  his 
head  vigorously. 

"That  is  lo  flamenco"  cried  Don  Antonio. 
"The  life  of  Andalusia  is  lo  flamenco" 

The  moon  has  begun  to  lose  foothold  in  the 
black  slippery  zenith.  We  are  hurtling  along  a 
road  at  the  top  of  a  cliff;  below  the  sea  full  of 
unexpected  glitters,  lace-edged,  swishing  like  the 
silk  dress  of  a  dancer.  The  goblin  driver  rolls 
from  side  to  side  asleep.  The  check  cap  is  down 
over  the  little  man's  face  so  that  not  even  his 
moustaches  are  to  be  seen.  All  at  once  the  lead 
ing  mule,  taken  with  suicidal  mania,  makes  a  side- 
wise  leap  for  the  cliff -edge.  Crumbling  of  gravel, 
snap  of  traces,  shouts,  uproar  inside.  Some  one 
has  managed  to  yank  the  mule  back  on  her 
hind  quarters.  In  the  sea  below  the  shadow  of  a 
coach  totters  at  the  edge  of  the  cliff's  shadow. 

[36] 


The  Donkey  Boy 

"Hija  de  puta"  cries  the  goblin  driver,  jump 
ing  to  the  ground. 

Don  Antonio  awakes  with  a  grunt  and  begins 
to  explain  querulously  that  he  has  had  nothing  to 
eat  all  day  but  two  boiled  eggs.  The  teeth  of 
the  goblin  driver  flash  white  flame  as  he  hangs 
wreath  upon  wreath  of  profanity  about  the 
trembling,  tugging  mules.  With  a  terrific  rat 
tling  jerk  the  coach  sways  to  the  safe  side  of  the 
road.  From  inside  angry  heads  are  poked  out 
like  the  heads  of  hens  out  of  an  overturned  coop. 
Don  Antonio  turns  to  me  and  shouts  in  tones  of 
triumph:  " iQue  flamenco,  eh?3' 

When  we  got  to  Almunecar  Don  Antonio,  the 
goblin  driver,  and  I  sat  at  a  little  table  outside  the 
empty  Casino.  A  waiter  appeared  from  some 
where  with  wine  and  coffee  and  tough  purple 
ham  and  stale  bread  and  cigarettes.  Over  our 
heads  dusty  palm-fronds  trembled  in  occasional 
faint  gusts  off  the  sea.  The  rings  on  Don 
Antonio's  thin  fingers  glistened  in  the  light  of 
the  one  tired  electric  light  bulb  that  shone  among 
palpitating  mottoes  above  us  as  he  explained  to 
me  the  significance  of  lo  flamenco. 

[37] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

The  tough  swaggering  gesture,  the  quavering 
song  well  sung,  the  couplet  neatly  capped,  the 
back  turned  to  the  charging  bull,  the  mantilla 
draped  with  exquisite  provocativeness :  all  that 
was  lo  flamenco.  "On  this  coast,  senor  ingles,,  we 
don't  work  much,  we  are  dirty  and  uninstructed, 
but  by  God  we  live.  Why  the  poor  people  of  the 
towns,  d'you  know  what  they  do  in  summer? 
They  hire  a  fig-tree  and  go  and  live  under  it  with 
their  dogs  and  their  cats  and  their  babies,  and 
they  eat  the  figs  as  they  ripen  and  drink  the  cold 
water  from  the  mountains,  and  man-alive  they 
are  happy.  They  fear  no  one  and  they  are  de 
pendent  on  no  one;  when  they  are  young  they 
make  love  and  sing  to  the  guitar,  and  when  they 
are  old  they  tell  stories  and  bring  up  their  chil 
dren.  You  have  travelled  much ;  I  have  travelled 
little — Madrid,  never  further, — but  I  swear  to 
you  that  nowhere  in  the  world  are  the  women 
lovelier  or  is  the  land  richer  or  the  cookery  more 
perfect  than  in  this  vega  of  Almunecar.  .  .  . 
If  only  the  wine  weren't  quite  so  heavy.  .  .  ." 

"Then  you  don't  want  to  go  to  America?" 
[38] 


The  Donkey  Boy 

" fHombre  por  dios!  Sing  us  a  song,  Paco. 
.  .  .  He's  a  Galician,  you  see." 

The  goblin  driver  grinned  and  threw  back  his 
head. 

"Go  to  the  end  of  the  world,  you'll  find  a 
Gallego,"  he  said.  Then  he  drank  down  his 
wine,  rubbed  his  mouth  on  the  back  of  his  hand, 
and  started  droningly: 

'Si  quieres  qu'el  carro  cante 
mo j  ale  y  dejel'en  rfo 
que  despues  de  buen  moja'o 
canta  com'un  silbi'o.* 

(If  you  want  a  cart  to  sing,  wet  it  and  soak  it 
in  the  river,  for  when  it's  well  soaked  it'll  sing 
like  a  locust.) 

"Hola,"  cried  Don  Antonio,  "go  on." 

*A  mi  me  gusta  el  bianco, 
jviva  lo  bianco!  jmuera  lo  negro! 
porque  el  negro  es  muy  triste. 
Yo  soy  alegre.    Yo  no  lo  quiero.' 

r(I  like  white;  hooray  for  white,  death  to 
black.  Because  black  is  very  sad,  and  I  am 
happy,  I  don't  like  it.) 

[39] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

"That's  it,"  cried  Don  Antonio  excitedly. 
"You  people  from  the  north,  English,  Amer 
icans,  Germans,  whatnot,  you  like  black.  You 
like  to  be  sad.  I  don't." 

"  *Yo  soy  alegre.  Yo  no  lo  quiero.' ' 
The  moon  had  sunk  into  the  west,  flushed  and 
swollen.  The  east  was  beginning  to  bleach  be 
fore  the  oncoming  sun.  Birds  started  chirping 
above  our  heads.  I  left  them,  but  as  I  lay  in  bed, 
I  could  hear  the  hoarse  voice  of  the  goblin  driver 
roaring  out: 

'A  mi  me  gusta  el  bianco, 
jviva  lo  bianco !     \  muera  lo  negro !' 

At  Nerja  in  an  arbor  of  purple  ipomoeas  on 
a  red  jutting  cliff  over  the  beach  where  brown 
children  were  bathing,  there  was  talk  again  of 
lo  flamenco. 

"In  Spain,"  my  friend  Don  Diego  was  say 
ing,  "we  live  from  the  belly  and  loins,  or  else 
from  the  head  and  heart:  between  Don  Quixote 
the  mystic  and  Sancho  Panza  the  sensualist  there 
is  no  middle  ground.  The  lowest  Panza  is  lo 
flamenco" 

[40] 


The  Donkey  Boy 

"But  you  do  live." 

"In  dirt,  disease,  lack  of  education,  oestiality. 
...  Half  of  us  are  always  dying  of  excess 
of  food  or  the  lack  of  it." 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"Education,  organization,  energy,  the  modern 
world." 

I  told  him  what  the  donkey-boy  had  said  of 
America  on  the  road  down  from  the  Alpuj  arras, 
that  in  America  they  did  nothing  but  work  and 
rest  so  as  to  be  able  to  work  again.  And  Amer 
ica  was  the  modern  world. 

And  lo  flamenco  is  neither  work  nor  getting 
ready  to  work. 

That  evening  San  Miguel  went  out  to  fetch 
the  Virgin  of  Sorrows  from  a  roadside  oratory 
and  brought  her  back  into  town  in  procession 
with  candles  and  skyrockets  and  much  chanting, 
and  as  the  swaying  cone-shaped  figure  carried  on 
the  shoulders  of  six  sweating  men  stood  poised 
at  the  entrance  to  the  plaza  where  all  the  girls 
wore  jessamine  flowers  in  the  blackness  of  their 
hair,  all  waved  their  hats  and  cried,  "jViva 
la  Fir  gen  de  las  Angustias!"  And  the  Virgin 

[41] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

and  San  Miguel  both  had  to  bow  their  heads  to 
get  in  the  church  door,  and  the  people  followed 
them  into  the  church  crying  ff\  Viva!"  so  that  the 
old  vaults  shivered  in  the  tremulous  candlelight 
and  the  shouting.  Some  people  cried  for  water, 
as  rain  was  about  due  and  everything  was  very 
dry,  and  when  they  came  out  of  the  church  they 
saw  a  thin  cloud  like  a  mantilla  of  white  lace  over 
the  moon,  so  they  went  home  happy. 

Wherever  they  went  through  the  narrow  well- 
swept  streets,  lit  by  an  occasional  path  of  orange 
light  from  a  window,  the  women  left  behind  them 
long  trails  of  fragrance  from  the  jessamine  flow 
ers  in  their  hair. 

Don  Diego  and  I  walked  a  long  while  on  the 
seashore  talking  of  America  and  the  Virgin  and 
a  certain  soup  called  ajo  bianco  and  Don  Quixote 
and  lo  flamenco.  We  were  trying  to  decide  what 
was  the  peculiar  quality  of  the  life  of  the  people 
in  that  rich  plain  (vega  they  call  it)  between  the 
mountains  of  the  sea.  Walking  about  the  country 
elevated  on  the  small  grass-grown  levees  of  irri 
gation  ditches,  the  owners  of  the  fields  we  crossed 
used,  simply  because  we  were  strangers,  to  offer 

[42] 


The  Donkey  Boy 

us  a  glass  of  wine  or  a  slice  of  watermelon.  I 
had  explained  to  my  friend  that  in  his  modern 
world  of  America  these  same  people  would  come 
out  after  us  with  shotguns  loaded  with  rock  salt. 
He  answered  that  even  so,  the  old  order  was 
changing,  and  that  as  there  was  nothing  else  but 
to  follow  the  procession  of  industrialism  it  be 
hooved  Spaniards  to  see  that  their  country  forged 
ahead  instead  of  being,  as  heretofore,  dragged  at 
the  tail  of  the  parade. 

"And  do  you  think  it's  leading  anywhere,  this 
endless  complicating  of  life?" 

"Of  course,"  he  answered. 

"Where?" 

"Where  does  anything  lead?  At  least  it  leads 
further  than  lo  flamenco" 

"But  couldn't  the  point  be  to  make  the  way 
significant?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.    "Work,"  he  said. 

We  had  come  to  a  little  nook  in  the  cliffs  where 
fishing  boats  were  drawn  up  with  folded  wings 
like  ducks  asleep.  We  climbed  a  winding  path 
up  the  cliff.  Pebbles  scuttled  underfoot;  our 
hands  were  torn  by  thorny  aromatic  shrubs. 

[43] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

Then  we  came  out  in  a  glen  that  cut  far  into  the 
mountains,  full  of  the  laughter  of  falling  water 
and  the  rustle  of  sappy  foliage.  Seven  stilted 
arches  of  an  aqueduct  showed  white  through  the 
canebrakes  inland.  Fragrances  thronged  about 
us;  the  smell  of  dry  thyme-grown  uplands,  of 
rich  wet  fields,  of  goats,  and  jessamine  and  helio 
trope,  and  of  water  cold  from  the  snowfields  run 
ning  fast  in  ditches.  Somewhere  far  off  a  donkey 
was  braying.  Then,  as  the  last  groan  of  the 
donkey  faded,  a  man's  voice  rose  suddenly  out 
of  the  dark  fields,  soaring,  yearning  on  taut 
throat-cords,  then  slipped  down  through  notes, 
like  a  small  boat  sliding  sideways  down  a  wave, 
then  unrolled  a  great  slow  scroll  of  rhythm  on  the 
night  and  ceased  suddenly  in  an  upward  cadence 
as  a  guttering  candle  flares  to  extinction. 

"Something  that's  neither  work  nor  getting 
ready  to  work,"  and  I  thought  of  the  arriero  on 
whose  donkey  I  had  forded  the  stream  on  the  way 
down  from  the  Alp uj arras,  and  his  saying:  ffCa, 
en  America  no  se  hose  naa  que  trabahar  y 
de'cansar" 

I  had  left  him  at  his  home  village,  a  little 
[44] 


The  Donkey  Boy 

cluster  of  red  and  yellow  roofs  about  a  fat  tower 
the  Moors  had  built  and  a  gaunt  church  that 
hunched  by  itself  in  a  square  of  trampled  dust. 
We  had  rested  awhile  before  going  into  town, 
under  a  fig  tree,  while  he  had  put  white  canvas 
shoes  on  his  lean  brown  feet.  The  broad  leaves 
had  rustled  in  the  wind,  and  the  smell  of  the  fruit 
that  hung  purple  bursting  to  crimson  against 
the  intense  sky  had  been  like  warm  stroking  vel 
vet  all  about  us.  And  the  arriero  had  discoursed 
on  the  merits  of  his  donkey  and  the  joys  of  going 
from  town  to  town  with  merchandise,  up  into 
the  mountains  for  chestnuts  and  firewood,  down 
to  the  sea  for  fish,  to  Malaga  for  tinware,  to 
Motril  for  sugar  from  the  refineries.  Nights  of 
dancing  and  guitar-playing  at  vintage-time, 
fiestas  of  the  Virgin,  where  older,  realer  gods 
were  worshipped  than  Jehovah  and  the  dolorous 
Mother  of  the  pale  Christ,  the  toros,  blood  and 
embroidered  silks  aflame  in  the  sunlight,  words 
whispered  through  barred  windows  at  night,  long 
days  of  travel  on  stony  roads  in  the  mountains. 
.  .  .  And  I  had  lain  back  with  my  eyes  closed 
and  the  hum  of  little  fig-bees  in  my  ears,  and 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

wished  that  my  life  were  his  life.  After  a 
while  we  had  jumped  to  our  feet  and  I  had 
shouldered  my  knapsack  with  its  books  and 
pencils  and  silly  pads  of  paper  and  trudged  off 
up  an  unshaded  road,  and  had  thought  with  a 
sort  of  bitter  merriment  of  that  prig  Christian 
and  his  damned  burden. 

"Something  that  is  neither  work  nor  getting 
ready  to  work,  to  make  the  road  so  significant 
that  one  needs  no  destination,  that  is  lo  flamenco" 
said  I  to  Don  Diego,  as  we  stood  in  the  glen 
looking  at  the  seven  white  arches  of  the  aqueduct. 

He  nodded  unconvinced. 


[46] 


///;  The  Baker  of  Almorox 


THE  senores  were  from  Madrid?  Indeed! 
The  man's  voice  was  full  of  an  awe  of  great 
distances.  He  was  the  village  baker  of  Almorox, 
where  we  had  gone  on  a  Sunday  excursion  from 
Madrid ;  and  we  were  standing  on  the  scrubbed 
tile  floor  of  his  house,  ceremoniously  receiving 
wine  and  figs  from  his  wife.  The  father  of  the 
friend  who  accompanied  me  had  once  lived  in 
the  same  village  as  the  baker's  father,  and  bought 
bread  of  him;  hence  the  entertainment.  This 
baker  of  Almorox  was  a  tall  man,  with  a  soft 
moustache  very  black  against  his  ash-pale  face, 
who  stood  with  his  large  head  thrust  far  forward. 
He  was  smiling  with  pleasure  at  the  presence  of 
strangers  in  his  house,  while  in  a  tone  of  shy 
deprecating  courtesy  he  asked  after  my  friend's 
family.  Don  Fernando  and  Dona  Ana  and  the 

[47] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

Senorita  were  well?  And  little  Carlos?  Carlos 
was  no  longer  little,  answered  my  friend,  and 
Dona  Ana  was  dead. 

The  baker's  wife  had  stood  in  the  shadow  look 
ing  from  one  face  to  another  with  a  sort  of 
wondering  pleasure  as  we  talked,  but  at  this  she 
came  forward  suddenly  into  the  pale  greenish- 
gold  light  that  streamed  through  the  door,  hold 
ing  a  dark  wine-bottle  before  her.  There  were 
tears  in  her  eyes.  No ;  she  had  never  known  any 
of  them,  she  explained  hastily — she  had  never 
been  away  from  Almorox — but  she  had  heard  so 
much  of  their  kindness  and  was  sorry.  .  .  . 
It  was  terrible  to  lose  a  father  or  a  mother.  The 
tall  baker  shifted  his  feet  uneasily,  embarrassed 
by  the  sadness  that  seemed  slipping  over  his 
guests,  and  suggested  that  we  walk  up  the  hill 
to  the  Hermitage ;  he  would  show  the  way. 

"But  your  work?"  we  asked.  Ah,  it  did  not 
matter.  Strangers  did  not  come  every  day  to 
Almorox.  He  strode  out  of  the  door,  wrapping 
a  woolen  muffler  about  his  bare  strongly  moulded 
throat,  and  we  followed  him  up  the  devious  street 
of  whitewashed  houses  that  gave  us  glimpses 

[48] 


The  Baker  of  Almorox 

through  wide  doors  of  dark  tiled  rooms  with  great 
black  rafters  overhead  and  courtyards  where 
chickens  pecked  at  the  manure  lodged  between 
smooth  worn  flagstones.  Still  between  white 
washed  walls  we  struck  out  of  the  village  into 
the  deep  black  mud  of  the  high  road,  and  at  last 
burst  suddenly  into  the  open  country,  where 
patches  of  sprouting  grass  shone  vivid  green 
against  the  gray  and  russet  of  broad  rolling 
lands.  At  the  top  of  the  first  hill  stood  the  Her 
mitage — a  small  whitewashed  chapel  with  a 
square  three-storied  tower;  over  the  door  was  a 
relief  of  the  Virgin,  crowned,  in  worn  lichened 
stone.  The  interior  was  very  plain  with  a  single 
heavily  gilt  altar,  over  which  was  a  painted 
statue,  stiff  but  full  of  a  certain  erect  disdainful 
grace — again  of  the  Virgin.  The  figure  was 
dressed  in  a  long  lace  gown,  full  of  frills  and 
ruffles,  grey  with  dust  and  age. 

"La  Virgen  de  la  Cima,"  said  the  baker,  point 
ing  reverently  with  his  thumb,  after  he  had  bent 
his  knee  before  the  altar.  And  as  I  glanced  at 
the  image  a  sudden  resemblance  struck  me:  the 
gown  gave  the  Virgin  a  curiously  conical  look 

[49] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

that  somehow  made  me  think  of  that  conical  black 
stone,  the  Bona  Dea,  that  the  Romans  brought 
from  Asia  Minor.  Here  again  was  a  good  god 
dess,  a  bountiful  one,  more  mother  than  virgin, 
despite  her  prudish  frills.  .  .  .  But  the  man 
was  ushering  us  out. 

"And  there  is  no  finer  view  than  this  in  all 
Spain."  With  a  broad  sweep  of  his  arm  he  took 
in  the  village  below,  with  its  waves  of  roofs  that 
merged  from  green  to  maroon  and  deep  crimson, 
broken  suddenly  by  the  open  square  in  front  of 
the  church ;  and  the  gray  towering  church,  scowl 
ing  with  strong  lights  and  shadows  on  buttresses 
and  pointed  windows;  and  the  brown  fields 
faintly  sheened  with  green,  which  gave  place  to 
the  deep  maroon  of  the  turned  earth  of  vineyards, 
and  the  shining  silver  where  the  wind  ruffled  the 
olive-orchards;  and  beyond,  the  rolling  hills  that 
grew  gradually  flatter  until  they  sank  into  the 
yellowish  plain  of  Castile.  As  he  made  the  ges 
ture  his  fingers  were  stretched  wide  as  if  to  grasp 
all  this  land  he  was  showing.  His  flaccid  cheeks 
were  flushed  as  he  turned  to  us;  but  we  should 
see  it  in  May,  he  was  saying,  in  May  when  the 

[50] 


The  Baker  of  Almorox 

wheat  was  thick  in  the  fields,  and  there  were 
flowers  on  the  hills.  Then  the  lands  were  beau 
tiful  and  rich,  in  May.  And  he  went  on  to  tell 
us  of  the  local  feast,  and  the  great  processions  of 
the  Virgin.  This  year  there  were  to  be  four  days 
of  the  toros.  So  many  bullfights  were  unusual 
in  such  a  small  village,  he  assured  us.  But  they 
were  rich  in  Almorox;  the  wine  was  the  best  in 
Castile.  Four  days  of  toros,  he  said  again ;  and 
all  the  people  of  the  country  around  would  come 
to  the  fiestas,  and  there  would  be  a  great  pil 
grimage  to  this  Hermitage  of  the  Virgin.  .  .  . 
As  he  talked  in  his  slow  deferential  way,  a  little 
conscious  of  his  volubility  before  strangers,  there 
began  to  grow  in  my  mind  a  picture  of  his  view 
of  the  world. 

First  came  his  family,  the  wife  whose  body  lay 
beside  his  at  night,  who  bore  him  children,  the  old 
withered  parents  who  sat  in  the  sun  at  his  door, 
his  memories  of  them  when  they  had  had  strong 
rounded  limbs  like  his,  and  of  their  parents  sit 
ting  old  and  withered  in  the  sun.  Then  his  work, 
the  heat  of  his  ovens,  the  smell  of  bread  cooking, 
the  faces  of  neighbors  who  came  to  buy;  and,  out- 

[51] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

side,  in  the  dim  penumbra  of  things  half  real,  of 
travellers'  tales,  lay  Madrid,  where  the  king 
lived  and  where  politicians  wrote  in  the  news 
papers, — and  Francia  and  all  that  was  not 
Almorox  ...  In  him  I  seemed  to  see  the 
generations  wax  and  wane,  like  the  years,  strung 
on  the  thread  of  labor,  of  unending  sweat  and 
strain  of  muscles  against  the  earth.  It  was  all 
so  mellow,  so  strangely  aloof  from  the  modern 
world  of  feverish  change,  this  life  of  the  peasants 
of  Almorox.  Everywhere  roots  striking  into  the 
infinite  past.  For  before  the  Revolution,  before 
the  Moors,  before  the  Romans,  before  the  dark 
furtive  traders,  the  Phoenicians,  they  were  much 
the  same,  these  Iberian  village  communities. 
Far  away  things  changed,  cities  were  founded, 
hard  roads  built,  armies  marched  and  fought  and 
passed  away ;  but  in  Almorox  the  foundations  of 
life  remained  unchanged  up  to  the  present.  New 
names  and  new  languages  had  come.  The  Virgin 
had  taken  over  the  festivals  and  rituals  of  the 
old  earth  goddesses,  and  the  deep  mystical  fervor 
of  devotion.  But  always  remained  the  love  for 
the  place,  the  strong  anarchistic  reliance  on  the 

[52] 


The  Baker  of  Almorox 

individual  man,  the  walking,  consciously  or  not, 
of  the  way  beaten  by  generations  of  men  who 
had  tilled  and  loved  and  lain  in  the  cherishing 
sun  with  no  feeling  of  a  reality  outside  of  them 
selves,  outside  of  the  bare  encompassing  hills  of 
their  commune,  except  the  God  which  was  the 
synthesis  of  their  souls  and  of  their  lives. 

Here  lies  the  strength  and  the  weakness  of 
Spain.  This  intense  individualism,  born  of  a 
history  whose  fundamentals  lie  in  isolated  village 
communities — pueblos,  as  the  Spaniards  call 
them — over  the  changeless  face  of  which,  like 
grass  over  a  field,  events  spring  and  mature  and 
die,  is  the  basic  fact  of  Spanish  life.  No  revolu 
tion  has  been  strong  enough  to  shake  it.  Invasion 
after  invasion,  of  Goths,  of  Moors,  of  Christian 
ideas,  of  the  fads  and  convictions  of  the  Renais 
sance,  have  swept  over  the  country,  changing 
surface  customs  and  modes  of  thought  and 
speech,  only  to  be  metamorphosed  into  keeping 
with  the  changeless  Iberian  mind. 

And  predominant  in  the  Iberian  mind  is  the 
thought  La  vida  es  sueno:  "Life  is  a  dream." 

[53] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

Only  the  individual,  or  that  part  of  life  which  is 
in  the  firm  grasp  of  the  individual,  is  real.  The 
supreme  expression  of  this  lies  in  the  two  great 
figures  that  typify  Spain  for  all  time:  Don 
Quixote  and  Sancho  Panza;  Don  Quixote,  the 
individualist  who  believed  in  the  power  of  man's 
soul  over  all  things,  whose  desire  included  the 
whole  world  in  himself;  Sancho,  the  individualist 
to  whom  all  the  world  was  food  for  his  belly.  On 
the  one  hand  we  have  the  ecstatic  figures  for 
whom  the  power  of  the  individual  soul  has  no 
limits,  in  whose  minds  the  universe  is  but  one  man 
standing  before  his  reflection,  God.  These  are 
the  Loyolas,  the  Philip  Seconds,  the  fervid 
ascetics  like  Juan  de  la  Cruz,  the  originals  of 
the  glowing  tortured  faces  in  the  portraits  of 
El  Greco.  On  the  other  hand  are  the  jovial 
materialists  like  the  Archpriest  of  Hita,  culmin 
ating  in  the  frantic,  mystical  sensuality  of  such 
an  epic  figure  as  Don  Juan  Tenorio.  Through 
all  Spanish  history  and  art  the  threads  of  these 
two  complementary  characters  can  be  traced, 
changing,  combining,  branching  out,  but  ever  in 

[54] 


The  Baker  of  Almorox 

substance  the  same.  Of  this  warp  and  woof  have 
all  the  strange  patterns  of  Spanish  life  been 
woven. 

II 

In  trying  to  hammer  some  sort  of  unified  im 
pression  out  of  the  scattered  pictures  of  Spain 
in  my  mind,  one  of  the  first  things  I  realize  is 
that  there  are  many  Spains.  Indeed,  every  vil 
lage  hidden  in  the  folds  of  the  great  barren  hills, 
or  shadowed  by  its  massive  church  in  the  middle 
of  one  of  the  upland  plains,  every  fertile  huerta 
of  the  seacoast,  is  a  Spain.  Iberia  exists,  and  the 
strong  Iberian  characteristics;  but  Spain  as  a 
modern  centralized  nation  is  an  illusion,  a  very 
unfortunate  one;  for  the  present  atrophy,  the 
desolating  resultlessness  of  a  century  of  revolu 
tion,  may  very  well  be  due  in  large  measure  to  the 
artificial  imposition  of  centralized  government  on 
a  land  essentially  centrifugal. 

In  the  first  place,  there  is  the  matter  of  lan 
guage.  Roughly,  four  distinct  languages  are  at 
present  spoken  in  Spain:  Castilian,  the  language 
of  Madrid  and  the  central  uplands,  the  official 

[55] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

language,  spoken  in  the  south  in  its  Andalusian 
form;  Gallego-Portuguese,  spoken  on  the  west 
coast;  Basque,  which  does  not  even  share  the 
Latin  descent  of  the  others ;  and  Catalan,  a  form 
of  Provencal  which,  with  its  dialect,  Valencian, 
is  spoken  on  the  upper  Mediterranean  coast  and 
in  the  Balearic  Isles.  Of  course,  under  the  in 
fluence  of  rail  communication  and  a  conscious 
effort  to  spread  Castilian,  the  other  languages, 
with  the  exception  of  Portuguese  and  Catalan, 
have  lost  vitality  and  died  out  in  the  larger  towns ; 
but  the  problem  remains  far  different  from  that 
of  the  Italian  dialects,  since  the  Spanish  lan 
guages  have  all,  except  Basque,  a  strong  literary 
tradition. 

Added  to  the  variety  of  language,  there  is  an 
immense  variety  of  topography  in  the  different 
parts  of  Spain.  The  central  plateaux,  dominant 
in  modern  history  (history  being  taken  to  mean 
the  births  and  breedings  of  kings  and  queens  and 
the  doings  of  generals  in  armor)  probably  approx 
imate  the  warmer  Russian  steppes  in  climate  and 
vegetation.  The  west  coast  is  in  most  respects 
a  warmer  and  more  fertile  Wales.  The  southern 

[56] 


The  Baker  of  Almorox 

huertas  (arable  river  valleys)  have  rather  the 
aspect  of  Egypt.  The  east  coast  from  Valencia 
up  is  a  continuation  of  the  Mediterranean  coast 
of  France.  It  follows  that,  in  this  country  where 
an  hour's  train  ride  will  take  you  from  Siberian 
snow  into  African  desert,  unity  of  population  is 
hardly  to  be  expected. 

Here  is  probably  the  root  of  the  tendency  in 
Spanish  art  and  thought  to  emphasize  the  differ 
ences  between  things.  In  painting,  where  the 
mind  of  a  people  is  often  more  tangibly  repre 
sented  than  anywhere  else,  we  find  one  supreme 
example.  El  Greco,  almost  the  caricature  in 
his  art  of  the  Don  Quixote  type  of  mind,  who, 
though  a  Greek  by  birth  and  a  Venetian  by  train 
ing,  became  more  Spanish  than  the  Spaniards 
during  his  long  life  at  Toledo,  strove  constantly 
to  express  the  difference  between  the  world  of 
flesh  and  the  world  of  spirit,  between  the  body 
and  the  soul  of  man.  More  recently,  the  extreme 
characterization  of  Goya's  sketches  and  portraits, 
the  intensifying  of  national  types  found  in 
Zuloaga  and  the  other  painters  who  have  been 
exploiting  with  such  success  the  peculiarities — 

[57] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

the  picturesqueness — of  Spanish  faces  and  land 
scapes,  seem  to  spring  from  this  powerful  sense 
of  the  separateness  of  things. 

In  another  way  you  can  express  this  constant 
attempt  to  differentiate  one  individual  from  an 
other  as  caricature.  Spanish  art  is  constantly  on 
the  edge  of  caricature.  Given  the  ebullient  fer 
tility  of  the  Spanish  mind  and  its  intense  individ 
ualism,  a  constant  slipping  over  into  the  gro 
tesque  is  inevitable.  And  so  it  comes  to  be  that 
the  conscious  or  unconscious  aim  of  their  art  is 
rather  self-expression  than  beauty.  Their  image 
of  reality  is  sharp  and  clear,  but  distorted.  Bur 
lesque  and  satire  are  never  far  away  in  their 
most  serious  moments.  Not  even  the  calmest  and 
best  ordered  of  Spanish  minds  can  resist  a  ten 
dency  to  excess  of  all  sorts,  to  over-elaboration, 
to  grotesquerie,  to  deadening  mannerism.  All 
that  is  greatest  in  their  art,  indeed,  lies  on  the 
borderland  of  the  extravagant,  where  sublime 
things  skim  the  thin  ice  of  absurdity.  The  great 
epic,  Don  Quixote,  such  plays  as  Calderon's  La 
Vida  es  Sueno,  such  paintings  as  El  Greco's 
Resurrection  and  Velasquez's  dwarfs,  such  build- 

[58] 


The  Baker  of  Almorox 

ings  as  the  Escorial  and  the  Alhambra — all 
among  the  universal  masterpieces — are'  far  in 
deed  from  the  middle  term  of  reasonable  beauty. 
Hence  their  supreme  strength.  And  for  our  gen 
eration,  to  which  excess  is  a  synonym  for  beauty, 
is  added  argumentative  significance  to  the  long 
tradition  of  Spanish  art. 

Another  characteristic,  springing  from  the 
same  fervid  abundance,  that  links  the  Spanish 
tradition  to  ours  of  the  present  day  is  the 
strangely  impromptu  character  of  much  Spanish 
art  production.  The  slightly  ridiculous  proverb 
that  genius  consists  of  an  infinite  capacity  for 
taking  pains  is  well  controverted.  The  creative 
flow  of  Spanish  artists  has  always  been  so  strong, 
so  full  of  vitality,  that  there  has  been  no  time  for 
taking  pains.  Lope  de  Vega,  with  his  two 
thousand-odd  plays — or  was  it  twelve  thousand? 
— is  by  no  means  an  isolated  instance.  Perhaps 
the  strong  sense  of  individual  validity,  which 
makes  Spain  the  most  democratic  country  in 
Europe,  sanctions  the  constant  improvisation, 
and  accounts  for  the  confident  planlessness  as 

[59] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

common  in  Spanish  architecture  as  in  Spanish 
political  thought. 

Here  we  meet  the  old  stock  characteristic, 
Spanish  pride.  This  is  a  very  real  thing,  and 
is  merely  the  external  shell  of  the  fundamental 
trust  in  the  individual  and  in  nothing  outside  of 
him.  Again  El  Greco  is  an  example.  As  his 
painting  progressed,  grew  more  and  more  per 
sonal,  he  drew  away  from  tangible  reality,  and, 
with  all  the  dogmatic  conviction  of  one  whose 
faith  in  his  own  reality  can  sweep  away  the 
mountains  of  the  visible  world,  expressed  his  own 
restless,  almost  sensual,  spirituality  in  forms  that 
flickered  like  white  flames  toward  God.  For  the 
Spaniard,  moreover,  God  is  always,  in  essence, 
the  proudest  sublimation  of  man's  soul.  The 
same  spirit  runs  through  the  preachers  of  the 
early  church  and  the  works  of  Santa  Teresa,  a 
disguise  of  the  frantic  desire  to  express  the  self, 
the  self,  changeless  and  eternal,  at  all  costs.  From 
this  comes  the  hard  cruelty  that  flares  forth 
luridly  at  times.  A  recent  book  by  Miguel  de 
Unamuno,  Del  Sentimiento  Trdgico  de  la  Vida, 
expresses  this  fierce  clinging  to  separateness  from 

[60] 


The  Baker  of  Almorox 

the  universe  by  the  phrase  el  hambre  de  inmor- 
talidad,  the  hunger  of  immortality.  This  is  the 
core  of  the  individualism  that  lurks  in  all  Spanish 
ideas,  the  conviction  that  only  the  individual  soul 
is  real. 

in 

In  the  Spain  of  to-day  these  things  are  seen 
as  through  a  glass,  darkly.  Since  the  famous  and 
much  gloated-over  entrance  of  Ferdinand  and 
Isabella  into  Granada,  the  history  of  Spain  has 
been  that  of  an  attempt  to  fit  a  square  peg  in  a 
round  hole.  In  the  great  flare  of  the  golden  age, 
the  age  of  ingots  of  Peru  and  of  men  of  even 
greater  worth,  the  disease  worked  beneath  the 
surface.  Since  then  the  conflict  has  corroded 
into  futility  all  the  buoyant  energies  of  the 
country.  I  mean  the  persistent  attempt  to  cen 
tralize  in  thought,  in  art,  in  government,  in  re 
ligion,  a  nation  whose  every  energy  lies  in  the 
other  direction.  The  result  has  been  a  dead 
lock,  and  the  ensuing  rust  and  numbing  of  all 
life  and  thought,  so  that  a  century  of  revolution 
seems  to  have  brought  Spain  no  nearer  a  solution 

[61] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

of  its  problems.  At  the  present  day,  when  all  is 
ripe  for  a  new  attempt  to  throw  off  the  atrophy, 
a  sort  of  despairing  inaction  causes  the  Spaniards 
to  remain  under  a  government  of  unbelievably 
corrupt  and  inefficient  politicians.  There  seems 
no  solution  to  the  problem  of  a  nation  in  which 
the  centralized  power  and  the  separate  communi 
ties  work  only  to  nullify  each  other. 

Spaniards  in  face  of  their  traditions  are  rather 
in  the  position  of  the  archaeologists  before  the 
problem  of  Iberian  sculpture.  For  near  the 
Cerro  de  los  Santos,  bare  hill  where  from  the 
ruins  of  a  sanctuary  has  been  dug  an  endless 
series  of  native  sculptures  of  men  and  women, 
goddesses  and  gods,  there  lived  a  little  watch 
maker.  The  first  statues  to  be  dug  up  were 
thought  by  the  pious  country  people  to  be  saints, 
and  saints  they  were,  according  to  an  earlier 
dispensation  than  that  of  Rome;  with  the  result 
that  much  Kudos  accompanied  the  discovery  of 
those  draped  women  with  high  head-dresses  and 
fixed  solemn  eyes  and  those  fragmentary  bull- 
necked  men  hewn  roughly  out  of  grey  stone ;  they 
were  freed  from  the  caked  clay  of  two  thousand 

[62] 


The  Baker  of  Almorox 

years  and  reverently  set  up  in  the  churches.  So 
probably  the  motives  that  started  the  watchmaker 
on  his  career  of  sculpturing  and  falsifying  were 
pious  and  reverential. 

However  it  began,  when  it  was  discovered  that 
the  saints  were  mere  horrid  heathen  he-gods  and 
she-gods  and  that  the  foreign  gentlemen  with 
spectacles  who  appeared  from  all  the  ends  of 
Europe  to  investigate,  would  pay  money  for 
them,  the  watchmaker  began  to  thrive  as  a 
mighty  man  in  his  village  and  generation.  He 
began  to  study  archaeology  and  the  style  of  his 
cumbersome  forged  divinities  improved.  For  a 
number  of  years  the  statues  from  the  Cerro  de 
los  Santos  were  swallowed  whole  by  all  learned 
Europe.  But  the  watchmaker's  imagination 
began  to  get  the  better  of  him;  forms  became 
more  and  more  fantastic,  Egyptian,  Assyrian, 
art-nouveau  influences  began  to  be  noted  by  the 
discerning,  until  at  last  someone  whispered  for 
gery  and  all  the  scientists  scuttled  to  cover  shout 
ing  that  there  had  never  been  any  native  Iberian 
sculpture  after  all. 

The  little  watchmaker  succumbed  before  his 
[63] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

imagining  of  heathen  gods  and  died  in  a  mad 
house.  To  this  day  when  you  stand  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  room  devoted  to  the  Cerro  de  los  Santos 
in  the  Madrid,  and  see  the  statues  of  Iberian 
goddesses  clustered  about  you  in  their  high  head 
dresses  like  those  of  dancers,  you  cannot  tell 
which  were  made  by  the  watchmaker  in  1880,  and 
which  by  the  image-maker  of  the  hill-sanctuary 
at  a  time  when  the  first  red-eyed  ships  of  the 
Phoenician  traders  were  founding  trading  posts 
among  the  barbarians  of  the  coast  of  Valencia. 
And  there  they  stand  on  their  shelves,  the  real 
and  the  false  inextricably  muddled,  and  stare  at 
the  enigma  with  stone  eyes. 

So  with  the  traditions :  the  tradition  of  Catholic 
Spain,  the  tradition  of  military  grandeur,  the 
tradition  of  fighting  the  Moors,  of  suspecting 
the  foreigner,  of  hospitality,  of  truculence,  of 
sobriety,  of  chivalry,  of  Don  Quixote  and 
Tenorio. 

The  Spanish-American  war,  to  the  United 
States  merely  an  opportunity  for  a  patriotic- 
capitalist  demonstration  of  sanitary  engineering, 
heroism  and  canned-meat  scandals,  was  to  Spain 

[64] 


The  Baker  of  Almorox 

the  first  whispered  word  that  many  among  the 
traditions  were  false.  The  young  men  of  that 
time  called  themselves  the  generation  of  ninety- 
eight.  According  to  temperament  they  rejected 
all  or  part  of  the  museum  of  traditions  they  had 
been  taught  to  believe  was  the  real  Spain;  each 
took  up  a  separate  road  in  search  of  a  Spain 
which  should  suit  his  yearnings  for  beauty,  gen 
tleness,  humaneness,  or  else  vigor,  force,  mod 
ernity. 

The  problem  of  our  day  is  whether  Spaniards 
evolving  locally,  anarchically,  without  centraliza 
tion  in  anything  but  repression,  will  work  out  new 
ways  of  life  for  themselves,  or  whether  they  will 
be  drawn  into  the  festering  tumult  of  a  Europe 
where  the  system  that  is  dying  is  only  strong 
enough  to  kill  in  its  death-throes  all  new  growth 
in  which  there  was  hope  for  the  future.  The 
Pyrenees  are  high. 

IV 

It  was  after  a  lecture  at  an  exhibition  of 
Basque  painters  in  Madrid,  where  we  had  heard 
Valle-Melan,  with  eyes  that  burned  out  from 

[65] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

under  shaggy  grizzled  eyebrows,  denounce  in 
bitter  stinging  irony  what  he  called  the  Euro- 
peanization  of  Spain.  What  they  called  progress, 
he  had  said,  was  merely  an  aping  of  the  stupid 
commercialism  of  modern  Europe.  Better  no 
education  for  the  masses  than  education  that 
would  turn  healthy  peasants  into  crafty  putty- 
skinned  merchants;  better  a  Spain  swooning  in 
her  age-old  apathy  than  a  Spain  awakened  to 
the  brutal  soulless  trade-war  of  modern  life. 
.  .  .  I  was  walking  with  a  young  student  of 
philosophy  I  had  met  by  chance  across  the  noisy 
board  of  a  Spanish  pension,  discussing  the  ex 
hibition  we  had  just  seen  as  a  strangely  meek 
setting  for  the  fiery  reactionary  speech.  I  had 
remarked  on  the  very  "primitive"  look  much 
of  the  work  of  these  young  Basque  painters  had, 
shown  by  some  in  the  almost  affectionate  tech 
nique,  in  the  dainty  caressing  brush-work,  in 
others  by  that  inadequacy  of  the  means  at  the 
painter's  disposal  to  express  his  idea,  which  made 
of  so  many  of  the  pictures  rather  gloriously  im 
pressive  failures.  My  friend  was  insisting,  how 
ever,  that  the  primitiveness,  rather  than  the  birth- 

[66] 


The  Baker  of  Almorox 

pangs  of  a  new  view  of  the  world,  was  nothing 
but  "the  last  affectation  of  an  over-civilized  tra 
dition." 

"Spain,"  he  said,  "is  the  most  civilized  country 
in  Europe.  The  growth  of  our  civilization  has 
never  been  interrupted  by  outside  influence.  The 
Phoenicians,  the  Romans — Spain's  influence  on 
Rome  was,  I  imagine,  fully  as  great  as  Rome's 
on  Spain ;  think  of  the  five  Spanish  emperors ; — 
the  Goths,  the  Moors; — all  incidents,  absorbed 
by  the  changeless  Iberian  spirit.  .  .  .  Even 
Spanish  Christianity,"  he  continued,  smiling,  "is 
far  more  Spanish  than  it  is  Christian.  Our  life 
is  one  vast  ritual.  Our  religion  is  part  of  it,  that 
is  all.  And  so  are  the  bull-fights  that  so  shock 
the  English  and  Americans, — are  they  any  more 
brutal,  though,  than  fox-hunting  and  prize 
fights?  And  how  full  of  tradition  are  they,  our 
fiestas  de  toros;  their  ceremony  reaches  back  to 
the  hecatombs  of  the  Homeric  heroes,  to  the  bull- 
worship  of  the  Cretans  and  of  so  many  of  the 
Mediterranean  cults,  to  the  Roman  games.  Can 
civilization  go  farther  than  to  ritualize  death  as 

[67] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

we  have  done  ?  But  our  culture  is  too  perfect,  too 
stable.  Life  is  choked  by  it." 

We  stood  still  a  moment  in  the  shade  of  a 
yellowed  lime  tree.  My  friend  had  stopped  talk 
ing  and  was  looking  with  his  usual  bitter  smile  at 
a  group  of  little  boys  with  brown,  bare  dusty  legs 
who  were  intently  playing  bull-fight  with  sticks 
for  swords  and  a  piece  of  newspaper  for  the 
toreador's  scarlet  cape. 

"It  is  you  in  America,"  he  went  on  suddenly, 
"to  whom  the  future  belongs ;  you  are  so  vigorous 
and  vulgar  and  uncultured.  Life  has  become 
once  more  the  primal  fight  for  bread.  Of  course 
the  dollar  is  a  complicated  form  of  the  food  the 
cave  man  killed  for  and  slunk  after,  and  the 
means  of  combat  are  different,  but  it  is  as  brutal. 
From  that  crude  animal  brutality  comes  all  the 
vigor  of  life.  We  have  none  of  it;  we  are  too 
tired  to  have  any  thoughts ;  we  have  lived  so  much 
so  long  ago  that  now  we  are  content  with  the 
very  simple  things, — the  warmth  of  the  sun  and 
the  colors  of  the  hills  and  the  flavor  of  bread  and 
wine.  All  the  rest  is  automatic,  ritual." 

"But  what  about  the  strike?"  I  asked,  re- 
[68] 


The  Baker  of  Almorox 

ferring  to  the  one-day's  general  strike  that  had 
just  been  carried  out  with  fair  success  through 
out  Spain,  as  a  protest  against  the  government's 
apathy  regarding  the  dangerous  rise  in  the  prices 
of  food  and  fuel. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"That,  and  more,"  he  said,  "is  new  Spain,  a 
prophecy,  rather  than  a  fact.    Old  Spain  is  still 
all-powerful." 

Later  in  the  day  I  was  walking  through  the 
main  street  of  one  of  the  clustered  adobe  villages 
that  lie  in  the  folds  of  the  Castilian  plain  not 
far  from  Madrid.  The  lamps  were  just  being 
lit  in  the  little  shops  where  the  people  lived  and 
worked  and  sold  their  goods,  and  women  with 
beautifully  shaped  pottery  jars  on  their  heads 
were  coming  home  with  water  from  the  well. 
Suddenly  I  came  out  on  an  open  plaza  with  trees 
from  which  the  last  leaves  were  falling  through 
the  greenish  sunset  light.  The  place  was  filled 
with  the  lilting  music  of  a  grind-organ  and  with 
a  crunch  of  steps  on  the  gravel  as  people  danced. 
There  were  soldiers  and  servant-girls,  and  red- 
cheeked  apprentice-boys  with  their  sweethearts, 

[69] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

and  respectable  shop-keepers,  and  their  wives 
with  mantillas  over  their  gleaming  black  hair. 
All  were  dancing  in  and  out  among  the  slim  tree- 
trunks,  and  the  air  was  noisy  with  laughter  and 
little  cries  of  childlike  unfeigned  enjoyment. 
Here  was  the  gospel  of  Sancho  Panza,  I  thought, 
the  easy  acceptance  of  life,  the  unashamed  joy 
in  food  and  color  and  the  softness  of  women's 
hair.  But  as  I  walked  out  of  the  village  across 
the  harsh  plain  of  Castile,  grey-green  and  violet 
under  the  deepening  night,  the  memory  came  to 
me  of  the  knight  of  the  sorrowful  countenance, 
Don  Quixote,  blunderingly  trying  to  remould 
the  world,  pitifully  sure  of  the  power  of  his  own 
ideal.  And  in  these  two  Spain  seemed  to  be 
manifest.  Far  indeed  were  they  from  the  restless 
industrial  world  of  joyless  enforced  labor  and 
incessant  goading  war.  And  I  wondered  to  what 
purpose  it  would  be,  should  Don  Quixote  again 
saddle  Rosinante,  and  what  the  good  baker  of 
Almorox  would  say  to  his  wife  when  he  looked 
up  from  his  kneading  trough,  holding  out  hands 
white  with  dough,  to  see  the  knight  errant  ride  by 
on  his  lean  steed  upon  a  new  quest. 

[70] 


IV:  Talk  by  the  Road 

TELEMACHUS  and  Lyaeus  had  walked 
all  night.  The  sky  to  the  east  of  them  was 
rosy  when  they  came  out  of  a  village  at  the  crest 
of  a  hill.  Cocks  crowed  behind  stucco  walls. 
The  road  dropped  from  their  feet  through  an 
avenue  of  pollarded  poplars  ghostly  with  frost. 
Far  away  into  the  brown  west  stretched  reach 
upon  reach  of  lake-like  glimmer;  here  and  there 
a  few  trees  pushed  jagged  arms  out  of  drowned 
lands.  They  stood  still  breathing  hard. 

"It's  the  Tagus  overflowed  its  banks,"  said 
Telemachus. 

Lyaeus  shook  his  head. 

"It's  mist." 

They  stood  with  thumping  hearts  on  the  hill 
top  looking  over  inexplicable  shimmering  plains 
of  mist  hemmed  by  mountains  jagged  like  coals 
that  as  they  looked  began  to  smoulder  with  dawn. 

[71] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

The  light  all  about  was  lemon  yellow.  The  walls 
of  the  village  behind  them  were  fervid  primrose 
color  splotched  with  shadows  of  sheer  cobalt. 
Above  the  houses  uncurled  green  spirals  of  wood- 
smoke. 

Lyaeus  raised  his  hands  above  his  head  and 
shouted  and  ran  like  mad  down  the  hill.  A  little 
voice  was  whispering  in  Telemachus's  ear  that  he 
must  save  his  strength,  so  he  followed  sedately. 

When  he  caught  up  to  Lyaeus  they  were  walk 
ing  among  twining  wraiths  of  mist  rose-shot  from 
a  rim  of  the  sun  that^poked  up  behind  hills  of 
bright  madder  purple.  A  sudden  cold  wind-gust 
whined  across  the  plain,  making  the  mist  writhe 
in  a  delirium  of  crumbling  shapes.  Ahead  of 
them  casting  gigantic  blue  shadows  over  the  fur 
rowed  fields  rode  a  man  on  a  donkey  and  a  man 
on  a  horse.  It  was  a  grey  sway-backed  horse 
that  joggled  in  a  little  trot  with  much  switching 
of  a  ragged  tail;  its  rider  wore  a  curious  peaked 
cap  and  sat  straight  and  lean  in  the  saddle.  Over 
one  shoulder  rested  a  long  bamboo  pole  that  in 
the  exaggerating  sunlight  cast  a  shadow  like  the 
shadow  of  a  lance.  The  man  on  the  donkey  was 

[72] 


Talk  by  the  Road 

shaped  like  a  dumpling  and  rode  with  his  toes 
turned  out. 

Telemachus  and  Lyaeus  walked  behind  them 
a  long  while  without  catching  up,  staring  curi 
ously  after  these  two  silent  riders. 

Eventually  getting  as  far  as  the  tails  of  the 
horse  and  the  donkey,  they  called  out :  "Buenos 
diat." 

There  turned  to  greet  them  a  red,  round  face, 
full  of  little  lines  like  an  over-ripe  tomato  and  a 
long  bloodless  face  drawn  into  a  point  at  the 
chin  by  a  grizzled  beard. 

"How  early  you  are,  gentlemen,"  said  the  tall 
man  on  the  grey  horse.  His  voice  was  deep  and 
sepulchral,  with  an  occasional  flutter  of  tender 
ness  like  a  glint  of  light  in  a  black  river. 

"Late,"  said  Lyaeus.  "We  come  from  Madrid 
on  foot." 

The  dumpling  man  crossed  himself. 

"They  are  mad,"  he  said  to  his  companion. 

"That,"  said  the  man  on  the  grey  horse,  "is 
always  the  answer  of  ignorance  when  confronted 
with  the  unusual.  These  gentlemen  undoubtedly 
have  very  good  reason  for  doing  as  they  do ;  and 

[73] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

besides  the  night  is  the  time  for  long  strides  and 
deep  thoughts,  is  it  not,  gentlemen?  The  habit 
of  vigil  is  one  we  sorely  need  in  this  distracted 
modern  world.  If  more  men  walked  and  thought 
the  night  through  there  would  be  less  miseries 
under  the  sun." 

"But,  such  a  cold  night!"  exclaimed  the 
dumpling  man. 

"On  colder  nights  than  this  I  have  seen  chil 
dren  asleep  in  doorways  in  the  streets  of 
Madrid." 

"Is  there  much  poverty  in  these  parts?"  asked 
Telemachus  stiffly,  wanting  to  show  that  he  too 
had  the  social  consciousness. 

"There  are  people — thousands — who  from  the 
day  they  are  born  till  the  day  they  die  never  have 
enough  to  eat." 

"They  have  wine,"  said  Lyaeus. 

"One  little  cup  on  Sundays,  and  they  are  so 
starved  that  it  makes  them  as  drunk  as  if  it  were 
a  hogshead." 

"I  have  heard,"  said  Lyaeus,  "that  the  sensa 
tions  of  starving  are  very  interesting — people 
have  visions  more  vivid  than  life." 

[74] 


Talk  by  the  Road 

"One  needs  very  few  sensations  to  lead  life 
humbly  and  beautifully,"  said  the  man  on  the 
grey  horse  in  a  gentle  tone  of  reproof. 

Lyaeus  frowned. 

"Perhaps,"  said  the  man  on  the  grey  horse 
turning  towards  Telemachus  his  lean  face,  where 
under  scraggly  eyebrows  glowered  eyes  of  soft 
dark  green,  "it  is  that  I  have  brooded  too  much 
on  the  injustice  done  in  the  world — all  society 
one  great  wrong.  Many  years  ago  I  should  have 
set  out  to  right  wrong — for  no  one  but  a  man,  an 
individual  alone,  can  right  a  wrong;  organiza 
tion  merely  substitutes  one  wrong  for  another — 
but  now.  ...  I  am  too  old.  You  see,  I  go 
fishing  instead." 

"Why,  it's  a  fishing  pole,"  cried  Lyaeus. 
"When  I  first  saw  it  I  thought  it  was  a  lance." 
And  he  let  out  his  roaring  laugh. 

"And  such  trout,"  cried  the  dumpling  man. 
"The  trout  there  are  in  that  little  stream  above 
Illescas!  That's  why  we  got  up  so  early,  to  fish 
for  trout." 

"I  like  to  see  the  dawn,"  said  the  man  on  the 
grey  horse. 

[75] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

"Is  thaft  Illescas?"  asked  Telemachus,  and 
pointed  to  a  dun  brown  tower  topped  by  a  cap 
of  blue  slate  that  stood  guard  over  a  cluster  of 
roofs  ahead  of  them.  Telemachus  had  a  map 
torn  from  Baedecker  in  his  pocket  that  he  had 
been  peeping  at  secretly. 

"That,  gentlemen,  is  Illescas,"  said  the  man 
on  the  grey  horse.  "And  if  you  will  allow  me  to 
offer  you  a  cup  of  coffee,  I  shall  be  most  pleased. 
You  must  excuse  me,  for  I  never  take  anything 
before  midday.  I  am  a  recluse,  have  been  for 
many  years  and  rarely  stir  abroad.  I  do  not 
intend  to  return  to  the  world  unless  I  can  bring 
something  with  me  worth  having."  A  wistful 
smile  twisted  a  little  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

"I  could  guzzle  a  hogshead  of  coffee  accom 
panied  by  vast  processions  of  toasted  rolls  in 
columns  of  four,"  shouted  Lyaeus. 

"We  are  on  our  way  to  Toledo,"  Telemachus 
broke  in,  not  wanting  to  give  the  impression  that 
food  was  their  only  thought. 

"You  will  see  the  paintings  of  Dominico  Theo- 
cotopoulos,  the  only  one  who  ever  depicted  the 
soul  of  Castile." 

[76] 


Talk  by  the  Road 

"This  man,"  said  Lyaeus,  with  a  slap  at 
Telemachus's  shoulder,  "is  looking  for  a  gesture." 

"The  gesture  of  Castile." 

The  man  on  the  grey  horse  rode  along  silently 
for  some  time.  The  sun  had  already  burnt  up 
the  hoar-frost  along  the  sides  of  the  road ;  only  an 
occasional  streak  remained  glistening  in  the 
shadow  of  a  ditch.  A  few  larks  sang  in  the  sky. 
Two  men  in  brown  corduroy  with  hoes  on  their 
shoulders  passed  on  their  way  to  the  fields. 

"Who  shall  say  what  is  the  gesture  of  Castile? 
...  I  am  from  La  Mancha  myself."  The  man 
on  the  grey  horse  started  speaking  gravely 
while  with  a  bony  hand,  very  white,  he  stroked  his 
beard.  "Something  cold  and  haughty  and  aloof 
.  .  .  men  concentrated,  converging  breathlessly 
on  the  single  flame  of  their  spirit.  .  .  .  Torque- 
mada,  Loyola,  Jorge  Manrique,  Cortes,  Santa 
Teresa.  .  .  .  Rapacity,  cruelty,  straightfor 
wardness.  .  .  .  Every  man's  life  a  lonely  ruth 
less  quest." 

Lyaeus  broke  in: 

"Remember  the  infinite  gentleness  of  the 
[77] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

saints  lowering  the  Conde  de  Orgaz  into  the 
grave  in  the  picture  in  San  Tomas.  .  .  ." 

"Ah,  that  is  what  I  was  trying  to  think  of. 
.  .  .  These  generations,  my  generation,  my  son's 
generation,  are  working  to  bury  with  infinite  ten 
derness  the  gorgeously  dressed  corpse  of  the  old 
Spain.  .  .  .  Gentlemen,  it  is  a  little  ridiculous  to 
say  so,  but  we  have  set  out  once  more  with  lance 
and  helmet  of  knight-errantry  to  free  the  en 
slaved,  to  right  the  wrongs  of  the  oppressed." 

They  had  come  into  town.  In  the  high  square 
tower  church-bells  were  ringing  for  morning 
mass.  Down  the  broad  main  street  scampered 
a  flock  of  goats  herded  by  a  lean  man  with  fangs 
like  a  dog  who  strode  along  in  a  snuff -colored 
cloak  with  a  broad  black  felt  hat  on  his  head. 

"How  do  you  do,  Don  Alonso?"  he  cried; 
"Good  luck  to  you,  gentlemen."  And  he  swept 
the  hat  off  his  head  in  a  wide  curving  gesture  as 
might  a  courtier  of  the  Rey  Don  Juan. 

The  hot  smell  of  the  goats  was  all  about  them 
as  they  sat  before  the  cafe  in  the  sun  under  a  bare 
acacia  tree,  looking  at  the  tightly  proportioned 
brick  arcades  of  the  mudejar  apse  of  the  church 

[78] 


Talk  by  the  Road 

opposite.  Don  Alonso  was  in  the  cafe  ordering ; 
the  dumpling-man  had  disappeared.  Telemachus 
got  up  on  his  numbed  feet  and  stretched  his  legs. 
"Ouf,"  he  said,  "I'm  tired."  Then  he  walked 
over  to  the  grey  horse  that  stood  with  hanging 
head  and  drooping  knees  hitched  to  one  of  the 
acacias. 

"I  wonder  what  his  name  is."  He  stroked  the 
horse's  scrawny  face.  "Is  it  Rosinante?" 

The  horse  twitched  his  ears,  straightened  his 
back  and  legs  and  pulled  back  black  lips  to  show 
yellow  teeth. 

"Of  course  it's  Rosinante!" 

The  horse's  sides  heaved.  He  threw  back  his 
head  and  whinnied  shrilly,  exultantly. 


[79] 


V:  A  Novelist  of  Revolution 


MUCH  as  G.  B.  S.  refuses  to  be  called  an 
Englishman,  Pio  Baroja  refuses  to  be 
called  a  Spaniard.  He  is  a  Basque.  Reluctantly 
he  admits  having  been  born  in  San  Sebastian, 
outpost  of  Cosmopolis  on  the  mountainous  coast 
of  Guipuzcoa,  where  a  stern-featured  race  of 
mountaineers  and  fishermen,  whose  prominent 
noses,  high  ruddy  cheek-bones  and  square  jowls 
are  gradually  becoming  known  to  the  world 
through  the  paintings  of  the  Zubiaurre,  clings  to 
its  ancient  un- Aryan  language  and  its  ancient 
song  and  customs  with  the  hard-headedness  of 
hill  people  the  world  over. 

From  the  first  Spanish  discoveries  in  America 
till  the  time  of  our  own  New  England  clipper 
ships,  the  Basque  coast  was  the  backbone  of 
Spanish  trade.  The  three  provinces  were  the 

[80] 


A  Novelist  of  Revolution 

only  ones  which  kept  their  privileges  and  their 
municipal  liberties  all  through  the  process  of  the 
centralizing  of  the  Spanish  monarchy  with  cross 
and  faggot,  which  historians  call  the  great  period 
of  Spain.  The  rocky  inlets  in  the  mountains  were 
full  of  shipyards  that  turned  out  privateers  and 
merchantmen  manned  by  lanky  broad-shouldered 
men  with  hard  red-beaked  faces  and  huge  hands 
coarsened  by  generations  of  straining  on  heavy 
oars  and  halyards, — men  who  feared  only  God 
and  the  sea-spirits  of  their  strange  mythology 
and  were  a  law  unto  themselves,  adventurers  and 
bigots. 

It  was  not  till  the  Nineteenth  century  that  the 
Carlist  wars  and  the  passing  of  sailing  ships 
broke  the  prosperous  independence  of  the  Basque 
provinces  and  threw  them  once  for  all  into  the 
main  current  of  Spanish  life.  Now  papermills 
take  the  place  of  shipyards,  and  instead  of  the 
great  fleet  that  went  off  every  year  to  fish  the 
Newfoundland  and  Iceland  banks,  a  few  steam 
trawlers  harry  the  sardines  in  the  Bay  of  Biscay. 
The  world  war,  too,  did  much  to  make  Bilboa 
one  of  the  industrial  centers  of  Spain,  even  re- 

[81] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

storing  in  some  measure  the  ancient  prosperity 
of  its  shipping. 

Pio  Baroja  spent  his  childhood  on  this  rainy 
coast  between  green  mountains  and  green  sea. 
There  were  old  aunts  who  filled  his  ears  up  with 
legends  of  former  mercantile  glory,  with  talk  of 
sea  captains  and  slavers  and  shipwrecks.  Born  in 
the  late  seventies,  Baroja  left  the  mist-filled  inlets 
of  Guipuzcoa  to  study  medicine  in  Madrid, 
febrile  capital  full  of  the  artificial  scurry  of  gov 
ernment,  on  the  dry  upland  plateau  of  New 
Castile.  He  even  practiced,  reluctantly  enough, 
in  a  town  near  Valencia,  where  he  must  have 
acquired  his  distaste  for  the  Mediterranean  and 
the  Latin  genius,  and,  later,  in  his  own  province 
at  Cestons,  where  he  boarded  with  the  woman  who 
baked  the  sacramental  wafers  for  the  parish 
church,  and,  so  he  claims,  felt  the  spirit  of  racial 
solidarity  glow  within  him  for  the  first  time. 
But  he  was  too  timid  in  the  face  of  pain  and  too 
sceptical  of  science  as  of  everything  else  to  ac 
quire  the  cocksure  brutality  of  a  country  doctor. 
He  gave  up  medicine  and  returned  to  Madrid, 
where  he  became  a  baker.  In  Juventud-Egola- 

[82] 


A  Novelist  of  Revolution 

tria  ("Youth-Selfworship")  a  book  of  delight 
fully  shameless  self -revelations,  he  says  that  he 
ran  a  bakery  for  six  years  before  starting  to 
write.  And  he  still  runs  a  bakery. 

You  can  see  it  any  day,  walking  towards  the 
Royal  Theatre  from  the  great  focus  of  Madrid 
life,  the  Puerta  del  Sol.  It  has  a  most  enticing 
window.  On  one  side  are  hams  and  red  saus 
ages  and  purple  sausages  and  white  sausages, 
some  plump  to  the  bursting  like  Rubens's 
"Graces,"  others  as  weazened  and  smoked  as 
saints  by  Ribera.  In  the  middle  are  oblong  plates 
with  pates  and  sliced  bologna  and  things  in  jelly; 
then  come  ranks  of  cakes,  creamcakes  and  fruit 
cakes,  everything  from  obscene  jam-rolls  to  celes 
tial  cornucopias  of  white  cream.  Through  the 
door  you  see  a  counter  with  round  loaves  of  bread 
on  it,  and  a  basketful  of  brown  rolls.  If  someone 
comes  out  a  dense  sweet  smell  of  fresh  bread  and 
pastry  swirls  about  the  sidewalk. 

So,  by  meeting  commerce  squarely  in  its  own 
field,  he  has  freed  himself  from  any  compromise 
with  Mammon.  While  his  bread  remains  sweet, 
his  novels  may  be  as  bitter  as  he  likes. 

[83] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

ii 

The  moon  shines  coldly  out  of  an  intense  blue 
sky  where  a  few  stars  glisten  faint  as  mica. 
Shadow  fills  half  the  street,  etching  a  silhouette 
of  roofs  and  chimneypots  and  cornices  on  the 
cobblestones,  leaving  the  rest  very  white  with 
moonlight.  The  facades  of  the  houses,  with  their 
blank  windows,  might  be  carved  out  of  ice.  In 
the  dark  of  a  doorway  a  woman  sits  hunched 
under  a  brown  shawl.  Her  head  nods,  but  still 
she  jerks  a  tune  that  sways  and  dances  through 
the  silent  street  out  of  the  accordion  on  her  lap. 
A  little  saucer  for  pennies  is  on  the  step  beside 
her.  In  the  next  doorway  two  guttersnipes  are 
huddled  together  asleep.  The  moonlight  points 
out  with  mocking  interest  their  skinny  dirt- 
crusted  feet  and  legs  stretched  out  over  the  icy 
pavement,  and  the  filthy  rags  that  barely  cover 
their  bodies.  Two  men  stumble  out  of  a  wine 
shop  arm  in  arm,  poor  men  in  corduroy,  who 
walk  along  unsteadily  in  their  worn  canvas  shoes, 
making  grandiloquent  gestures  of  pity,  tearing 
down  the  cold  hard  facades  with  drunken  gen- 

[84] 


A  Novelist  of  Revolution 

erous  phrases,  buoyed  up  by  the  warmth  of  the 
wine  in  their  veins. 

That  is  Baroja's  world:  dismal,  ironic,  the 
streets  of  towns  where  industrial  life  sits  heavy 
on  the  neck  of  a  race  as  little  adapted  to  it  as  any 
in  Europe.  No  one  has  ever  described  better  the 
shaggy  badlands  and  cabbage-patches  round  the 
edges  of  a  city,  where  the  debris  of  civilization 
piles  up  ramshackle  suburbs  in  which  starve  and 
scheme  all  manner  of  human  detritus.  Back  lots 
where  men  and  women  live  fantastically  in  shel 
ters  patched  out  of  rotten  boards,  of  old  tin  cans 
and  bits  of  chairs  and  tables  that  have  stood  for 
years  in  bright  pleasant  rooms.  Grassy  patches 
behind  crumbling  walls  where  on  sunny  days 
starving  children  spread  their  fleshless  limbs  and 
run  about  in  the  sun.  Miserable  wineshops  where 
the  wind  whines  through  broken  panes  to  chill 
men  with  ever-empty  stomachs  who  sit  about 
gambling  and  finding  furious  drunkenness  in  a 
sip  of  aguardiente.  Courtyards  of  barracks 
where  painters  who  have  not  a  cent  in  the  world 
mix  with  beggars  and  guttersnipes  to  cajole  a 

[85] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

little  hot  food  out  of  soft-hearted  soldiers  at  mess- 
time.  Convent  doors  where  ragged  lines  shiver 
for  hours  in  the  shrill  wind  that  blows  across  the 
bare  Castilian  plain  waiting  for  the  nuns  to  throw 
out  bread  for  them  to  fight  over  like  dogs.  And 
through  it  all  moves  the  great  crowd  of  the  out 
cast,  sneak-thieves,  burglars,  beggars  of  every 
description, — rich  beggars  and  poor  devils  who 
have  given  up  the  struggle  to  exist, — homeless 
children,  prostitutes,  people  who  live  a  half -hon 
est  existence  selling  knicknacks,  penniless  stu 
dents,  inventors  who  while  away  the  time  they  are 
dying  of  starvation  telling  all  they  meet  of  the 
riches  they  might  have  had;  all  who  have  failed 
on  the  daily  treadmill  of  bread-making,  or  who 
have  never  had  a  chance  even  to  enjoy  the  privi 
lege  of  industrial  slavery.  Outside  of  Russia 
there  has  never  been  a  novelist  so  taken  up  with 
all  that  society  and  respectability  reject. 

Not  that  the  interest  in  outcasts  is  anything 
new  in  Spanish  literature.  Spain  is  the  home  of 
that  type  of  novel  which  the  pigeonhole-makers 
have  named  picaresque.  These  loafers  and  wan 
derers  of  Baroja's,  like  his  artists  and  grotesque 

[86] 


A  Novelist  of  Revolution 

dreamers  and  fanatics,  all  are  the  descendants  of 
the  people  in  the  Quijote  and  the  Novelas  Ejem- 
plares,  of  the  rogues  and  bandits  of  the  Lazarillo 
de  Tormes,  who  through  Gil  Bias  invaded  France 
and  England,  where  they  rollicked  through  the 
novel  until  Mrs.  Grundy  and  George  Eliot 
packed  them  off  to  the  reform  school.  But  the 
rogues  of  the  seventeenth  century  were  jolly 
rogues.  They  always  had  their  tongues  in  their 
cheeks,  and  success  rewarded  their  ingenious 
audacities.  The  moulds  of  society  had  not  hard 
ened  as  they  have  now ;  there  was  less  pressure  of 
hungry  generations.  Or,  more  probably,  pity 
had  not  come  in  to  undermine  the  foundations. 

The  corrosive  of  pity,  which  had  attacked  the 
steel  girders  of  our  civilization  even  before  the 
work  of  building  was  completed,  has  brought 
about  what  Gilbert  Murray  in  speaking  of  Greek 
thought  calls  the  failure  of  nerve.  In  the  seven 
teenth  century  men  still  had  the  courage  of  their 
egoism.  The  world  was  a  bad  job  to  be  made  the 
best  of,  all  hope  lay  in  driving  a  good  bargain 
with  the  conductors  of  life  everlasting.  By  the 
end  of  the  nineteenth  century  the  life  everlasting 

[87] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

had  grown  cobwebby,  the  French  Revolution  had 
filled  men  up  with  extravagant  hopes  of  the  per 
fectibility  of  this  world,  humanitarianism  had  in 
stilled  an  abnormal  sensitiveness  to  pain, — to 
one's  own  pain,  and  to  the  pain  of  one's  neigh 
bors.  Baroja's  outcasts  are  no  longer  jolly 
knaves  who  will  murder  a  man  for  a  nickel  and 
go  on  their  road  singing  "Over  the  hills  and  far 
away" ;  they  are  men  who  have  not  had  the  will 
power  to  continue  in  the  fight  for  bread,  they  are 
men  whose  nerve  has  failed,  who  live  furtively  on 
the  outskirts,  snatching  a  little  joy  here  and  there, 
drugging  their  hunger  with  gorgeous  mirages. 

One  often  thinks  of  Gorki  in  reading  Baroja, 
mainly  because  of  the  contrast.  Instead  of  the 
tumultuous  spring  freshet  of  a  new  race  that 
drones  behind  every  page  of  the  Russian,  there 
is  the  cold  despair  of  an  old  race,  of  a  race  that 
lived  long  under  a  formula  of  life  to  which  it 
has  sacrificed  much,  only  to  discover  in  the  end 
that  the  formula  does  not  hold. 

These  are  the  last  paragraphs  of  Mala  Hierba 
("Wild  Grass"),  the  middle  volume  of  Baroja's 
trilogy  on  the  life  of  the  very  poor  in  Madrid. 

[88] 


A  Novelist  of  Revolution 

"They  talked.  Manuel  felt  irritation  against 
the  whole  world,  hatred,  up  to  that  moment  pent 
up  within  him  against  society,  against  man.  .  .  . 

"  'Honestly,'  he  ended  by  saying,  'I  wish  it 
would  rain  dynamite  for  a  week,  and  that  the 
Eternal  Father  would  come  tumbling  down  in 
cinders.' 

"He  invoked  crazily  all  the  destructive  powers 
to  reduce  to  ashes  this  miserable  society. 

"Jesus  listened  with  attention. 

"  'You  are  an  anarchist,'  he  told  him. 

"  'I?' 

"'Yes.    So  am  I.' 

"'Since  when?' 

'  'Since  I  have  seen  the  infamies  committed  in 
the  world ;  since  I  have  seen  how  coldly  they  give 
to  death  a  bit  of  human  flesh ;  since  I  have  seen 
how  men  die  abandoned  in  the  streets  and  hos 
pitals,'  answered  Jesus  with  a  certain  solemnity. 

"Manuel  was  silent.  The  friends  walked  with 
out  speaking  round  the  Ronda  de  Segovia,  and 
sat  down  on  a  bench  in  the  little  gardens  of  the 
Virgen  del  Puerto. 

"The  sky  was  superb,  crowded  with  stars;  the 
F89] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

Milky  Way  crossed  its  immense  blue  concavity. 
The  geometric  figure  of  the  Great  Bear  glittered 
very  high.  Arcturus  and  Vega  shone  softly  in 
that  ocean  of  stars. 

"In  the  distance  the  dark  fields,  scratched  with 
lines  of  lights,  seemed  the  sea  in  a  harbor  and  the 
strings  of  lights  the  illumination  of  a  wharf. 

"The  damp  warm  air  came  laden  with  odors  of 
woodland  plants  wilted  by  the  heat. 

"  'How  many  stars,'  said  Manuel.  'What  can 
they  be?' 

"  'They  are  worlds,  endless  worlds.' 

"  'I  don't  know  why  it  doesn't  make  me  feel 
better  to  see  this  sky  so  beautiful,  Jesus.  Do  you 
think  there  are  men  in  those  worlds?'  asked 
Manuel. 

"'Perhaps;  why  not?' 

"  'And  are  there  prisons  too,  and  judges  and 
gambling  dens  and  police?  ...  Do  you  think 
so?' 

"Jesus  did  not  answer.  After  a  while  he  be 
gan  talking  with  a  calm  voice  of  his  dream  of  an 
idyllic  humanity,  a  sweet  pitiful  dream,  noble 
and  childish. 

[90] 


A  Novelist  of  Revolution 

"In  his  dream,  man,  led  by  a  new  idea,  reached 
a  higher  state. 

"No  more  hatreds,  no  more  rancours.  Neither 
judges,  nor  police,  nor  soldiers,  nor  authority. 
In  the  wide  fields  of  the  earth  free  men  worked  in 
the  sunlight.  The  law  of  love  had  taken  the 
place  of  the  law  of  duty,  and  the  horizons  of  hu 
manity  grew  every  moment  wider,  wider  and 
more  azure. 

"And  Jesus  continued  talking  of  a  vague  ideal 
of  love  and  justice,  of  energy  and  pity;  and  those 
words  of  his,  chaotic,  incoherent,  fell  like  balm 
on  Manuel's  ulcerated  spirit.  Then  they  were 
both  silent,  lost  in  their  thoughts,  looking  at  the 
night. 

"An  august  joy  shone  in  the  sky,  and  the  vague 
sensation  of  space,  of  the  infinity  of  those  im 
ponderable  worlds,  filled  their  spirits  with  a  de 
licious  calm." 

in 

Spain  is  the  classic  home  of  the  anarchist.  A 
bleak  upland  country  mostly,  with  a  climate  giv 
ing  all  varieties  of  temperature,  from  moist  Af ri- 

[91] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

can  heat  to  dry  Siberian  cold,  where  people  have 
lived  until  very  recently, — and  do  still, — in  vil 
lages  hidden  away  among  the  bare  ribs  of  the 
mountains,  or  in  the  indented  coast  plains,  where 
every  region  is  cut  off  from  every  other  by  high 
passes  and  defiles  of  the  mountains,  flaming  hot 
in  summer  and  freezing  cold  in  winter,  where  the 
Iberian  race  has  grown  up  centerless.  The 
pueblo,  the  village  community,  is  the  only  form 
of  social  cohesion  that  really  has  roots  in  the  past. 
On  these  free  towns  empires  have  time  and  again 
been  imposed  by  force.  In  the  sixteenth  and 
seventeenth  centuries  the  Catholic  monarchy 
wielded  the  sword  of  the  faith  to  such  good  effect 
that  communal  feeling  was  killed  and  the  Span 
ish  genius  forced  to  ingrow  into  the  mystical 
realm  where  every  ego  expanded  itself  into  the 
solitude  of  God.  The  eighteenth  century  reduced 
God  to  an  abstraction,  and  the  nineteenth 
brought  pity  and  the  mad  hope  of  righting  the 
wrongs  of  society.  The  Spaniard,  like  his  own 
Don  Quixote,  mounted  the  warhorse  of  his  ideal 
ism  and  set  out  to  free  the  oppressed,  alone.  As  a 
logical  conclusion  we  have  the  anarchist  who 

[92] 


A  Novelist  of  Revolution 

threw  a  bomb  into  the  Lyceum  Theatre  in  Barce 
lona  during  a  performance,  wanting  to  make  the 
ultimate  heroic  gesture  and  only  succeeding  in  a 
senseless  mangling  of  human  lives. 

But  that  was  the  reduction  to  an  absurdity  of 
an  immensely  valuable  mental  position.  The 
anarchism  of  Pio  Baroja  is  of  another  sort.  He 
says  in  one  of  his  books  that  the  only  part  a  man 
of  the  middle  classes  can  play  in  the  reorganiza 
tion  of  society  is  destructive.  He  has  not  under 
gone  the  discipline,  which  can  only  come  from 
common  slavery  in  the  industrial  machine,  neces 
sary  for  a  builder.  His  slavery  has  been  an 
isolated  slavery  which  has  unfitted  him  forever 
from  becoming  truly  part  of  a  community.  He 
can  use  the  vast  power  of  knowledge  which  train 
ing  has  given  him  only  in  one  way.  His  great 
mission  is  to  put  the  acid  test  to  existing  institu 
tions,  and  to  strip  the  veils  off  them.  I  don't 
want  to  imply  that  Baroja  writes  with  his  social 
conscience.  He  is  too  much  of  a  novelist  for  that, 
too  deeply  interested  in  people  as  such.  But  it  is 
certain  that  a  profound  sense  of  the  evil  of  exist 
ing  institutions  lies  behind  every  page  he  has 

[93] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

written,  and  that  occasionally,  only  occasionally, 
he  allows  himself  to  hope  that  something  better 
may  come  out  of  the  turmoil  of  our  age  of  transi 
tion. 

Only  a  man  who  had  felt  all  this  very  deeply 
could  be  so  sensitive  to  the  new  spirit — if  the  word 
were  not  threadbare  one  would  call  it  religious — 
which  is  shaking  the  foundations  of  the  world's 
social  pyramid,  perhaps  only  another  example  of 
the  failure  of  nerve,  perhaps  the  triumphant  ex 
pression  of  a  new  will  among  mankind. 

In  Aurora  Boja  ("Red  Dawn"),  the  last  of 
the  Madrid  trilogy,  about  the  same  Manuel  who 
is  the  central  figure  of  Mala  Hierba,  he  writes: 

"At  first  it  bored  him,  but  later,  little  by  little, 
he  felt  himself  carried  away  by  what  he  was  read 
ing.  First  he  was  enthusiastic  about  Mirabeau; 
then  about  the  Girondins ;  Vergniau  Petion,  Con- 
dorcet;  then  about  Danton;  then  he  began  to 
think  that  Robespierre  was  the  true  revolution 
ary;  afterwards  Saint  Just,  but  in  the  end  it  was 
the  gigantic  figure  of  Danton  that  thrilled  him 
most.  .  .  . 

[94] 


A  Novelist  of  Revolution 

"Manuel  felt  great  satisfaction  at  having  read 
that  history.  Often  he  said  to  himself: 

"  'What  does  it  matter  now  if  I  am  a  loafer, 
and  good-for-nothing?  I've  read  the  history  of 
the  French  Revolution;  I  believe  I  shall  know 
how  to  be  worthy.  .  .  .' 

"After  Michelet,  he  read  a  book  about  '48;  then 
another  on  the  Commune,  by  Louise  Michel,  and 
all  this  produced  in  him  a  great  admiration  for 
French  Revolutionists.  What  men!  After  the 
colossal  figures  of  the  Convention:  Babeuf, 
Proudhon,  Blanqui,  Bandin,  Deleschize,  Roche- 
fort,  Felix  Pyat,  Vallu.  .  .  .  What  people! 

"  'What  does  it  matter  now  if  I  am  a  loafer? 
...  I  believe  I  shall  know  how  to  be  worthy.' ' 

In  those  two  phrases  lies  all  the  power  of  revo 
lutionary  faith.  And  how  like  phrases  out  of  the 
gospels,  those  older  expressions  of  the  hope  and 
misery  of  another  society  in  decay.  That  is  the 
spirit  that,  for  good  or  evil,  is  stirring  through 
out  Europe  to-day,  among  the  poor  and  the 
hungry  and  the  oppressed  and  the  outcast,  a  new 
affirmation  of  the  rights  and  duties  of  men. 
Baroja  has  felt  this  profoundly,  and  has  pre- 

[95] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

serited  it,  but  without  abandoning  the  function  of 
the  novelist,  which  is  to  tell  stories  about  people. 
He  is  never  a  propagandist. 


IV 

"I  have  never  hidden  my  admirations  in  litera 
ture.  They  have  been  and  are  Dickens,  Balzac, 
Poe,  Dostoievski  and,  now,  Stendhal  .  .  ." 
writes  Baroja  in  the  preface  to  the  Nelson  edition 
of  La  Dama  Errante  ( "The  Wandering  Lady" ) . 
He  follows  particularly  in  the  footprints  of  Bal 
zac  in  that  he  is  primarily  a  historian  of  morals, 
who  has  made  a  fairly  consistent  attempt  to  cover 
the  world  he  lived  in.  With  Dostoievski  there  is 
a  kinship  in  the  passionate  hatred  of  cruelty  and 
stupidity  that  crops  out  everywhere  in  his  work. 
I  have  never  found  any  trace  of  influence  of  the 
other  three.  To  be  sure  there  are  a  few  early 
sketches  in  the  manner  of  Poe,  but  in  respect  to 
form  he  is  much  more  in  the  purely  chaotic  tradi 
tion  of  the  picaresque  novel  he  despises  than  in 
that  of  the  American  theorist. 

Baroja's  most  important  work  lies  in  the  four 
[96] 


A  Novelist  of  Revolution 

series  of  novels  of  the  Spanish  life  he  lived,  in 
Madrid,  in  the  provincial  towns  where  he  prac 
ticed  medicine,  and  in  the  Basque  country  where 
he  had  been  brought  up.  The  foundation  of 
these  was  laid  by  El  Arbol  de  la  Ciencia  ("The 
Tree  of  Knowledge") ,  a  novel  half  autobiograph 
ical  describing  the  life  and  death  of  a  doctor,  giv 
ing  a  picture  of  existence  in  Madrid  and  then  in 
two  Spanish  provincial  towns.  Its  tremendously 
vivid  painting  of  inertia  and  the  deadening  under 
its  weight  of  intellectual  effort  made  a  very  pro 
found  impression  in  Spain.  Two  novels  about 
the  anarchist  movement  followed  it,  La  DamaEr- 
rante,  which  describes  the  state  of  mind  of  for 
ward-looking  Spaniards  at  the  time  of  the  famous 
anarchist  attempt  on  the  lives  of  the  king  and 
queen  the  day  of  their  marriage,  and  La  Ciudad 
de  la  Niebla,  about  the  Spanish  colony  in  Lon 
don.  Then  came  the  series  called  La  Busca 
("The  Search"),  which  to  me  is  Baroja's  best 
work,  and  one  of  the  most  interesting  things  pub 
lished  in  Europe  in  the  last  decade.  It  deals  with 
the  lowest  and  most  miserable  life  in  Madrid  and 
is  written  with  a  cold  acidity  which  Maupassant 

[97] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

would  have  envied  and  is  permeated  by  a  human 
vividness  that  I  do  not  think  Maupassant  could 
have  achieved.  All  three  novels,  La  Busca,  Mala 
Hierba,  and  Aurora  Koja,  deal  with  the  drifting 
of  a  typical  uneducated  Spanish  boy,  son  of  a 
maid  of  all  work  in  a  boarding  house,  through 
different  strata  of  Madrid  life.  They  give  a 
sense  of  unadorned  reality  very  rare  in  any  litera 
ture,  and  besides  their  power  as  novels  are  im 
mensely  interesting  as  sheer  natural  history. 
The  type  of  the  golfo  is  a  literary  discovery  com 
parable  with  that  of  Sancho  Panza  by  Cervantes. 
Nothing  that  Baroja  has  written  since  is  quite 
on  the  same  level.  The  series  El  Pasado  ("The 
Past")  gives  interesting  pictures  of  provincial 
life.  Las  Inquietudes  de  STianti  Andia  ("The 
Anxieties  of  Shanti  Andia"),  a  story  of  Basque 
seamen  which  contains  a  charming  picture  of  a 
childhood  in  a  seaside  village  in  Guipuzcoa,  de 
lightful  as  it  is  to  read,  is  too  muddled  in  romantic 
claptrap  to  add  much  to  his  fame.  El  Mundo 
es  Asi  ("The  World  is  Like  That")  expresses, 
rather  lamely  it  seems  to  me,  the  meditations  of  a 
disenchanted  revolutionist.  The  latest  series, 

[98] 


A  Novelist  of  Revolution 

Memorias  de  un  H ombre  de  Acdon,  a  series  of 
yarns  about  the  revolutionary  period  in  Spain  at 
the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century,  though 
entertaining,  is  more  an  attempt  to  escape  in  a 
jolly  romantic  past  the  realities  of  the  morose 
present  than  anything  else.  Cesar  o  Nada,  trans 
lated  into  English  under  the  title  of  "Aut  Csesar 
aut  Nullus"  is  also  less  acid  and  less  effective  than 
his  earlier  novels.  That  is  probably  why  it  was 
chosen  for  translation  into  English.  We  know 
how  anxious  our  publishers  are  to  furnish  food 
easily  digestible  by  weak  American  stomachs. 

It  is  silly  to  judge  any  Spanish  novelist  from 
the  point  of  view  of  form.  Improvisation  is  the 
very  soul  of  Spanish  writing.  In  thinking  back 
over  books  of  Baroja's  one  has  read,  one  remem 
bers  more  descriptions  of  places  and  people  than 
anything  else.  In  the  end  it  is  rather  natural 
history  than  dramatic  creation.  But  a  natural 
history  that  gives  you  the  pictures  etched  with 
vitriol  of  Spanish  life  in  the  end  of  the  nineteenth 
and  the  beginning  of  the  twentieth  century 
which  you  get  in  these  novels  of  Baroja's  is  very 
near  the  highest  sort  of  creation.  If  we  could 

[99] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

inject  some  of  the  virus  of  his  intense  sense  of 
reality  into  American  writers  it  would  be  worth 
giving  up  all  these  stale  conquests  of  form  we  in 
herited  from  Poe  and  O.  Henry.  The  follow 
ing,  again  from  the  preface  of  La  Dama  Errante, 
is  Baroja's  own  statement  of  his  aims.  And  cer 
tainly  he  has  realized  them. 

"Probably  a  book  like  la  Dama  Errante  is 
not  of  the  sort  that  lives  very  long;  it  is  not  a 
painting  with  aspirations  towards  the  museum 
but  an  impressionist  canvas;  perhaps  as  a  work 
it  has  too  much  asperity,  is  too  hard,  not  serene 
enough. 

"This  ephemeral  character  of  my  work  does 
not  displease  me.  We  are  men  of  the  day,  people 
in  love  with  the  passing  moment,  with  all  that  is 
fugitive  and  transitory  and  the  lasting  quality  of 
our  work  preoccupies  us  little,  so  little  that  it  can 
hardly  be  said  to  preoccupy  us  at  all." 


[100] 


VI:  Talk  by  the  Road 

SPAIN,"  said  Don  Alonso,  as  he  and  Tele- 
machus  walked  out  of  Illescas,  followed  at 
a  little  distance  by  Lyaeus  and  the  dumpling- 
man,  "has  never  been  swept  clean.  There  have 
been  the  Romans  and  the  Visigoths  and  the 
Moors  and  the  French — armed  men  jingling  over 
mountain  roads.  Conquest  has  warped  and 
sterilised  our  Iberian  mind  without  changing  an 
atom  of  it.  An  example :  we  missed  the  Revolu 
tion  and  suffered  from  Napoleon.  We  virtually 
had  no  Reformation,  yet  the  Inquisition  was 
stronger  with  us  than  anywhere." 

"Do  you  think  it  will  have  to  be  swept  clean?" 
asked  Telemachus. 

"He  does."  Don  Alonso  pointed  with  a  sweep 
of  an  arm  towards  a  man  working  in  the  field 
beside  the  road.  It  was  a  short  man  in  a  blouse; 
he  broke  the  clods  the  plow  had  left  with  a  heavy 
triangular  hoe.  Sometimes  he  raised  it  only  a 

[101] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

foot  above  the  ground  to  poise  for  a  blow,  some 
times  he  swung  it  from  over  his  shoulder.  Face, 
clothes,  hands,  hoe  were  brown  against  the  brown 
hillside  where  a  purple  shadow  mocked  each 
heavy  gesture  with  lank  gesticulations.  In  the 
morning  silence  the  blows  of  the  hoe  beat  upon 
the  air  with  muffled  insistence. 

"And  he  is  the  man  who  will  do  the  building," 
went  on  Don  Alonso;  "It  is  only  fair  that  we 
should  clear  the  road." 

"But  you  are  the  thinkers,"  said  Telemachus; 
his  mother  Penelope's  maxims  on  the  subject  of 
constructive  criticism  popped  up  suddenly  in  his 
mind  like  tickets  from  a  cash  register. 

"Thought  is  the  acid  that  destroys,"  answered 
Don  Alonso. 

Telemachus  turned  to  look  once  more  at  the 
man  working  in  the  field.  The  hoe  rose  and  fell, 
rose  and  fell.  At  a  moment  on  each  stroke  a 
flash  of  sunlight  came  from  it.  Telemachus  saw 
all  at  once  the  whole  earth,  plowed  fields  full  of 
earth-colored  men,  shoulders  thrown  back,  bent 
forward,  muscles  of  arms  swelling  and  slacken 
ing,  hoes  flashing  at  the  same  moment  against  the 

[102] 


Talk  by  the  Road 

sky,  at  the  same  moment  buried  with  a  thud  in 
clods.  And  he  felt  reassured  as  a  traveller  feels, 
hearing  the  continuous  hiss  and  squudge  of  well 
oiled  engines  out  at  sea. 


[103] 


VII:  Cordova  no  Longer    of  the 
Caliphs 

WHEN  we  stepped  out  of  the  bookshop  the 
narrow  street  steamed  with  the  dust  of 
many  carriages.  Above  the  swiftly  whirling 
wheels  gaudily  dressed  men  and  women  sat  mo 
tionless  in  attitudes.  Over  the  backs  of  the  car 
riages  brilliant  shawls  trailed,  triangles  of  red 
and  purple  and  yellow. 

"Bread  and  circuses,"  muttered  the  man  who 
was  with  me,  "but  not  enough  bread." 

It  was  fair-time  in  Cordova ;  the  carriages  were 
coming  back  from  the  toros.  We  turned  into  a 
narrow  lane,  where  the  dust  was  yellow  between 
high  green  and  lavender-washed  walls.  From  the 
street  we  had  left  came  a  sound  of  cheers  and 
hand-clapping.  My  friend  stopped  still  and  put 
his  hand  on  my  arm. 

"There  goes  Belmonte,"  he  said ;  "half  the  men 
who  are  cheering  him  have  never  had  enough  to 

[104] 


Cordova  no  Longer  of  the  Caliphs 

eat  in  their  lives.  The  old  Romans  knew  better ; 
to  keep  people  quiet  they  filled  their  bellies. 

Those  fools "  he  jerked  his  head  backwards 

with  disgust;  I  thought,  of  the  shawls  and  the 
high  combs  and  the  hair  gleaming  black  under 
lace  and  the  wasp -waists  of  the  young  men  and 
the  insolence  of  black  eyes  above  the  flashing 
wheels  of  the  carriages,  " — those  fools  give  only 
circuses.  Do  you  people  in  the  outside  world 
realize  that  we  in  Andalusia  starve,  that  we  have 
starved  for  generations,  that  those  black  bulls  for 
the  circuses  may  graze  over  good  wheatland  .  .  . 
to  make  Spain  picturesque!  The  only  time  we 
see  meat  is  in  the  bullring.  Those  people  who 
argue  all  the  time  as  to  why  Spain's  backward 
and  write  books  about  it,  I  could  tell  them  in  one 
word:  malnutrition."  He  laughed  despairingly 
and  started  walking  fast  again.  "We  have 
solved  the  problem  of  the  cost  of  living.  We  live 
on  air  and  dust  and  bad  smells." 

I  had  gone  into  his  bookshop  a  few  minutes 
before  to  ask  an  address,  and  had  been  taken  into 
the  back  room  with  the  wonderful  enthusiastic 
courtesy  one  finds  so  often  in  Spain.  There  the 

[105] 


Rosmante  to  the  Road  Again 

bookseller,  a  carpenter  and  the  bookseller's  er 
rand-boy  had  all  talked  at  once,  explaining  the 
last  strike  of  farm-laborers,  when  the  region  had 
been  for  months  under  martial  law,  and  they,  and 
every  one  else  of  socialist  or  republican  sym 
pathies,  had  been  packed  for  weeks  into  over 
crowded  prisons.  They  all  regretted  they  could 
not  take  me  to  the  Casa  del  Pueblo,  but,  they 
explained  laughing,  the  Civil  Guard  was  occupy 
ing  it  at  that  moment.  It  ended  by  the  book 
seller's  coming  out  with  me  to  show  me  the  way 
to  Azorin's. 

Azorin  was  an  architect  who  had  supported  the 
strikers;  he  had  just  come  back  to  Cordova  from 
the  obscure  village  where  he  had  been  imprisoned 
through  the  care  of  the  military  governor  who  had 
paid  him  the  compliment  of  thinking  that  even 
in  prison  he  would  be  dangerous  in  Cordova.  He 
had  recently  been  elected  municipal  councillor, 
and  when  we  reached  his  office  was  busy  designing 
a  schoolhouse.  On  the  stairs  the  bookseller  had 
whispered  to  me  that  every  workman  in  Cordova 
would  die  for  Azorin.  He  was  a  sallow  little 
man  with  a  vaguely  sarcastic  voice  and  an  amused 

[106] 


Cordova  no  Longer  of  the  Caliphs 

air  as  if  he  would  burst  out  laughing  at  any  mo 
ment.  He  put  aside  his  plans  and  we  all  went  on 
to  see  the  editor  of  Andalusia,  a  regionalist  pro- 
labor  weekly. 

In  that  dark  little  office,  over  three  cups  of 
coffee  that  appeared  miraculously  from  some 
where,  with  the  pungent  smell  of  ink  and  fresh 
paper  in  our  nostrils,  we  talked  about  the  past 
and  future  of  Cordova,  and  of  all  the  wide  region 
of  northern  Andalusia,  fertile  irrigated  plains, 
dry  olive-land  stretching  up  to  the  rocky  water 
less  mountains  where  the  mines  are.  In  Azorin's 
crisp  phrases  and  in  the  long  ornate  periods  of  the 
editor,  the  serfdom  and  the  squalor  and  the  heroic 
hope  of  these  peasants  and  miners  and  artisans 
became  vivid  to  me  for  the  first  time.  Occasion 
ally  the  compositor,  a  boy  of  about  fifteen  with  a 
brown  ink-smudged  face,  would  poke  his  head  in 
the  door  and  shout:  "It's  true  what  they  say,  but 
they  don't  say  enough,  they  don't  say  enough." 

The  problem  in  the  south  of  Spain  is  almost 
wholly  agrarian.  From  the  Tagus  to  the  Medi 
terranean  stretches  a  mountainous  region  of  low 
rainfall,  intersected  by  several  series  of  broad 

[107] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

river-valleys  which,  under  irrigation,  are  enor 
mously  productive  of  rice,  oranges,  and,  in  the 
higher  altitudes,  of  wheat.  In  the  dry  hills  grow 
grapes,  olives  and  almonds.  A  country  on  the 
whole  much  like  southern  California.  Under  the 
Moors  this  region  was  the  richest  and  most  civi 
lized  in  Europe. 

When  the  Christian  nobles  from  the  north 
reconquered  it,  the  ecclesiastics  laid  hold  of  the 
towns  and  extinguished  industry  through  the 
Inquisition,  while  the  land  was  distributed  in 
huge  estates  to  the  magnates  of  the  court  of  the 
Catholic  Kings.  The  agricultural  workers  be 
came  virtually  serfs,  and  the  communal  village 
system  of  working  the  land  gradually  gave  way. 
Now  the  province  of  Jaen,  certainly  as  large  as 
the  State  of  Rhode  Island,  is  virtually  owned  by 
six  families.  This  process  was  helped  by  the  fact 
that  all  through  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth 
centuries  the  liveliest  people  in  all  Spain  swarmed 
overseas  to  explore  and  plunder  America  or  went 
into  the  church,  so  that  the  tilling  of  the  land  was 
left  to  the  humblest  and  least  vigorous.  And 

[108] 


Cordova  no  Longer  of  the  Caliphs 

immigration  to  America  has  continued  the  safety 
valve  of  the  social  order. 

It  is  only  comparatively  recently  that  the  con 
sciousness  has  begun  to  form  among  the  workers 
of  the  soil  that  it  is  possible  for  them  to  change 
their  lot.  As  everywhere  else,  Russia  has  been  the 
beacon-flare.  Since  1918  an  extraordinary  tense 
ness  has  come  over  the  lives  of  the  frugal  sinewy 
peasants  who,  through  centuries  of  oppression 
and  starvation,  have  kept,  in  spite  of  almost  com 
plete  illiteracy,  a  curiously  vivid  sense  of  per 
sonal  independence.  In  the  backs  of  taverns 
revolutionary  tracts  are  spelled  out  by  some  boy 
who  has  had  a  couple  of  years  of  school  to  a  crowd 
of  men  who  listen  or  repeat  the  words  after  him 
with  the  fervor  of  people  going  through  a  reli 
gious  mystery.  Unspeakable  faith  possesses  them 
in  what  they  call  ffla  nueva  ley3'  ("the  new  law") , 
by  which  the  good  things  a  man  wrings  by  his 
sweat  from  the  earth  shall  be  his  and  not  the 
property  of  a  distant  senor  in  Madrid. 

It  is  this  hopefulness  that  marks  the  difference 
between  the  present  agrarian  agitation  and  the 
violent  and  desperate  peasant  risings  of  the  past. 

[109] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

As  early  as  October,  1918,  a  congress  of  agricul 
tural  workers  was  held  to  decide  on  strike  meth 
ods,  and,  more  important,  to  formulate  a  demand 
for  the  expropriation  of  the  land.  In  two  months 
the  unions,  (ff sociedades  de  resistencia"  )had  been 
welded — at  least  in  the  province  of  Cordova — 
into  a  unified  system  with  more  or  less  central 
leadership.  The  strike  which  followed  was  so 
complete  that  in  many  cases  even  domestic  serv 
ants  went  out.  After  savage  repression  and  the 
military  occupation  of  the  whole  province,  the 
strike  petered  out  into  compromises  which  re 
sulted  in  considerable  betterment  of  working  con 
ditions  but  left  the  important  issues  untouched. 
The  rise  in  the  cost  of  living  and  the  growing 
unrest  brought  matters  to  a  head  again  in  the 
summer  of  1919.  The  military  was  used  with 
even  more  brutality  than  the  previous  year.  At 
tempts  at  compromise,  at  parcelling  out  unculti 
vated  land  have  proved  as  unavailing  as  the 
Mausers  of  the  Civil  Guard  to  quell  the  tumult. 
The  peasants  have  kept  their  organizations  and 
their  demands  intact.  They  are  even  willing  to 
wait;  but  they  are  determined  that  the  land  upon 

[110] 


Cordova  no  Longer  of  the  Caliphs 

which  they  have  worn  out  generations  and  gen 
erations  shall  be  theirs  without  question. 

All  this  time  the  landlords  hrandish  a  redoubt 
able  weapon:  starvation.  Already  thousands  of 
acres  that  might  be  richly  fertile  lie  idle  or  are 
pasture  for  herds  of  wild  bulls  for  the  arena. 
The  great  land-owning  families  hold  estates  all 
over  Spain;  if  in  a  given  region  the  workers  be 
come  too  exigent,  they  decide  to  leave  the  land 
in  fallow  for  a  year  or  two.  In  the  villages  it  be 
comes  a  question  of  starve  or  emigrate.  To  emi 
grate  many  certificates  are  needed.  Many  offi 
cials  have  to  be  placated.  For  all  that  money  is 
needed.  Men  taking  to  the  roads  in  search  of 
work  are  persecuted  as  vagrants  by  the  civil 
guards.  Arson  becomes  the  last  retort  of  despair. 
At  night  the  standing  grain  burns  mysteriously 
or  the  country  house  of  an  absent  landlord,  and 
from  the  parched  hills  where  gnarled  almond- 
trees  grow,  groups  of  half  starved  men  watch  the 
flames  with  grim  exultation. 

Meanwhile  the  press  in  Madrid  laments  the 
incultura  of  the  Andalusian  peasants.  The  prob 
lem  of  civilization,  after  all,  is  often  one  of  food 

[mi 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

calories.  Fernando  de  los  Rios,  socialist  deputy 
for  Granada,  recently  published  the  result  of  an 
investigation  of  the  food  of  the  agricultural  pop 
ulations  of  Spain  in  which  he  showed  that  only  in 
the  Balkans — out  of  all  Europe — was  the  work 
ing  man  so  under-nourished.  The  calories  which 
the  diet  of  the  average  Cordova  workman  repre 
sented  was  something  like  a  fourth  of  those  of  the 
British  workman's  diet.  Even  so  the  foremen  of 
the  big  estates  complain  that  as  a  result  of  all  this 
social  agitation  their  workmen  have  taken  to  eat 
ing  more  than  they  did  in  the  good  old  times. 

How  long  it  will  be  before  the  final  explosion 
comes  no  one  can  conjecture.  The  spring  of 
1920,  when  great  things  were  expected,  was  com 
pletely  calm.  On  the  other  hand,  in  the  last 
municipal  elections  when  six  hundred  socialist 
councillors  were  elected  in  all  Spain — in  con 
trast  to  sixty- two  in  1915 — the  vote  polled  in 
Andalusia  was  unprecedented.  Up  to  this  elec 
tion  many  of  the  peasants  had  never  dared  vote, 
and  those  that  had  had  been  completely  under  the 
thumb  of  the  caciques,  the  bosses  that  control 
Spanish  local  politics.  However,  in  spite  of 

[112] 


Cordova  no  Longer  of  the  Caliphs 

socialist  and  syndicalist  propaganda,  the  agrarian 
problem  will  always  remain  separate  from  any 
thing  else  in  the  minds  of  the  peasants.  This 
does  not  mean  that  they  are  opposed  to  commun 
ism  or  cling  as  violently  as  most  of  the  European 
peasantry  to  the  habit  of  private  property. 

All  over  Spain  one  comes  upon  traces  of  the 
old  communist  village  institutions,  by  which  flocks 
and  mills  and  bakeries  and  often  land  were  held 
in,  common.  As  in  all  arid  countries,  where 
everything  depends  upon  irrigation,  ditches  are 
everywhere  built  and  repaired  in  common.  And 
the  idea  of  private  property  is  of  necessity  feeble 
where  there  is  no  rain ;  for  what  good  is  land  to  a 
man  without  water?  Still,  until  there  grows  up 
a  much  stronger  community  of  interest  than  now 
exists  between  the  peasants  and  the  industrial 
workers,  the  struggle  for  the  land  and  the  strug 
gle  for  the  control  of  industry  will  be,  in  Spain, 
as  I  think  everywhere,  parallel  rather  than  uni 
fied.  One  thing  is  certain,  however  long  the  fire 
smoulders  before  it  flares  high  to  make  a  clean 
sweep  of  Spanish  capitalism  and  Spanish  feudal 
ism  together,  Cordova,  hoary  city  of  the  caliphs, 

[113] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

where  ghosts  of  old  grandeurs  flit  about  the  zig 
zag  ochre-colored  lanes,  will,  when  the  moment 
comes,  be  the  center  of  organization  of  the  agrar 
ian  revolution.  When  I  was  leaving  Spain  I 
rode  with  some  young  men  who  were  emigrating 
to  America,  to  make  their  fortunes,  they  said. 
When  I  told  them  I  had  been  to  Cordova,  their 
faces  became  suddenly  bright  with  admiration. 

"Ah,  Cordova,"  one  of  them  cried;  "they've  got 
the  guts  in  Cordova." 


[114] 


VIII:  Talk  by  the  Road 

AT  the  first  crossroads  beyond  Illescas  the 
dumpling-man  and  Don  Alonso  turned  off 
in  quest  of  the  trout  stream.  Don  Alonso  waved 
solemnly  to  Lyaeus  and  Telemachus. 

"Perhaps  we  shall  meet  in  Toledo,"  he  said. 

"Catch  a  lot  of  fish,"  shouted  Lyaeus. 

"And  perhaps  a  thought,"  was  the  last  word 
they  heard  from  Don  Alonso. 

The  sun  already  high  in  the  sky  poured  tingling 
heat  on  their  heads  and  shoulders.  There  was 
sand  in  their  shoes,  an  occasional  sharp  pain  in 
their  shins,  in  their  bellies  bitter  emptiness. 

"At  the  next  village,  Tel,  I'm  going  to  bed. 
You  can  do  what  you  like,"  said  Lyaeus  in  a 
tearful  voice. 

"I'll  like  that  all  right." 

"Buenos  dias,  senores  viajeros"  came  a  cheer 
ful  voice.  They  found  they  were  walking  in  the 
company  of  a  man  who  wore  a  tight- waisted  over- 

[115] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

coat  of  a  light  blue  color,  a  cream-colored  felt 
hat  from  under  which  protruded  long  black  mous 
taches  with  gimlet  points,  and  shoes  with  lemon- 
yellow  uppers.  They  passed  the  time  of  day 
with  what  cheerfulness  they  could  muster. 

"Ah,  Toledo,"  said  the  man.  "You  are  going 
to  Toledo,  my  birthplace.  There  I  was  born  in 
the  shadow  of  the  cathedral,  there  I  shall  die.  I 
am  a  traveller  of  commerce."  He  produced  two 
cards  as  large  as  postcards  on  which  was  written: 

ANTONIO  SILVA  Y  YEPES 

UNIVERSAL  AGENT 
IMPORT   EXPORT   NATIONAL   PRODUCTS 

"At  your  service,  gentlemen,"  he  said  and 
handed  each  of  them  a  card.  "I  deal  in  tinware, 
ironware,  pottery,  lead  pipes,  enameled  ware, 
kitchen  utensils,  American  toilet  articles,  French 
perfumery,  cutlery,  linen,  sewing  machines,  sad 
dles,  bridles,  seeds,  fancy  poultry,  fighting  ban 
tams  and  objects  devertu.  .  .  .  You  are  foreign 
ers,  are  you  not?  How  barbarous  Spain,  what 
people,  what  dirt,  what  lack  of  culture,  what  im 
politeness,  what  lack  of  energy!" 

[116] 


Talk  by  the  Road 

The  universal  agent  choked,  coughed,  spat, 
produced  a  handkerchief  of  crimson  silk  with 
which  he  wiped  his  eyes  and  mouth,  twirled  his 
moustaches  and  plunged  again  into  a  torrent  of 
words,  turning  on  Telemachus  from  time  to  time 
little  red-rimmed  eyes  full  of  moist  pathos  like 
a  dog's. 

"Oh  there  are  times,  gentlemen,  when  it  is  too 
much  to  bear,  when  I  rejoice  to  think  that  it's  all 
up  with  my  lungs  and  that  I  shan't  live  long  any 
way.  ...  In  America  I  should  have  been  a 
Rockefeller,  a  Carnegie,  a  Morgan.  I  know  it, 
for  I  am  a  man  of  genius.  It  is  true.  I  am  a 
man  of  genius.  .  .  .  And  look  at  me  here  walk 
ing  from  one  of  these  cursed  tumbledown  villages 
to  another  because  I  have  not  money  enough  to 
hire  a  cab.  .  .  .  And  ill  too,  dying  of  consump 
tion!  O  Spain,  Spain,  how  do  you  crush  your 
great  men !  What  you  must  think  of  us,  you  who 
come  from  civilized  countries,  where  life  is  organ 
ized,  where  commerce  is  a  gentlemanly,  even  a 
noble  occupation.  .  .  ." 

"But  you  savor  life  more.  .  ." 

ffCa,  ca"  interrupted  the  universal  agent  with 
[117] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

a  downward  gesture  of  the  hand.  "To  think  that 
they  call  by  the  same  name  living  here  in  a  pen 
like  a  pig  and  living  in  Paris,  London,  New  York, 
Biarritz,  Trouville  .  .  .  luxurious  beds,  coif 
fures,  toilettes,  theatrical  functions,  sumptuous 
automobiles,  elegant  ladies  glittering  with  dia 
monds  .  .  .  the  world  of  light  and  enchantment ! 
Oh  to  think  of  it !  And  Spain  could  be  the  richest 
country  in  Europe,  if  we  had  energy,  organiza 
tion,  culture!  Think  of  the  exports:  iron,  coal, 
copper,  silver,  oranges,  hides,  mules,  olives,  food 
products,  woolens,  cotton  cloth,  sugarcane,  raw 
cotton  .  .  .  couplets,  dancers,  gipsy  girls.  .  .  ." 

The  universal  agent  had  quite  lost  his  breath. 
He  coughed  for  a  long  time  into  his  crimson  hand 
kerchief,  then  looked  about  him  over  the  rolling 
dun  slopes  to  which  the  young  grain  sprouting 
gave  a  sheen  of  vivid  green  like  the  patina  on  a 
Pompeian  bronze  vase,  and  shrugged  his  shoul 
ders. 

"lQu£  vida!    What  a  life!" 

For  some  time  a  spire  had  been  poking  up  into 
the  sky  at  the  road's  end ;  now  yellow-tiled  roofs 
were  just  visible  humped  out  of  the  wheatland, 

[118] 


Talk  by  the  Road 

with  the  church  standing  guard  over  them,  it's 
buttresses  as  bowed  as  the  legs  of  a  bulldog.  At 
the  sight  of  the  village  a  certain  spring  came  back 
to  Telemachus's  fatigue-sodden  legs.  He  noticed 
with  envy  that  Lyaeus  took  little  skips  as  he 
walked. 

"If  we  properly  exploited  our  exports  we 
should  be  the  richest  people  in  Europe,"  the  uni 
versal  agent  kept  shouting  with  far-flung  ges 
tures  of  despair.  And  the  last  they  heard  from 
him  as  they  left  him  to  turn  into  the  manure- 
littered,  chicken-noisy  courtyard  of  the  Posada 
de  la  Luna  was,  "/  Que  pueblo  indecente!  .  .  . 
What  a  beastly  town  .  .  .  yet  if  they  exploited 
with  energy,  with  modern  energy,  their  ex 
ports.  .  .  ." 


[119] 


IX:  An  Inverted  Midas 

EVERY  age  must  have  had  choice  spirits 
whose  golden  fingers  turned  everything  they 
touched  to  commonplace.  Since  we  know  our 
own  literature  best  it  seems  unreasonably  well 
equipped  with  these  inverted  Midases — though 
the  fact  that  all  Anglo-American  writing  dur 
ing  the  last  century  has  been  so  exclusively  of 
the  middle  classes,  by  the  middle  classes  and  for 
the  middle  classes  must  count  for  something. 
Still  Rome  had  her  Marcus  Aurelius,  and  we 
may  be  sure  that  platitudes  would  have  obscured 
the  slanting  sides  of  the  pyramids  had  stone-cut 
ting  in  the  reign  of  Cheops  been  as  disastrously 
easy  as  is  printing  to-day.  The  addition  of  the 
typewriter  to  the  printing-press  has  given  a  new 
and  horrible  impetus  to  the  spread  of  half-baked 
thought.  The  labor  of  graving  on  stone  or  of 
baking  tablets  of  brick  or  even  of  scrawling  let 
ters  on  paper  with  a  pen  is  no  longer  a  curb  on 

[120] 


An  Inverted  Midas 

the  dangerous  fluency  of  the  inverted  Midas.  He 
now  lolls  in  a  Morris  chair,  sipping  iced  tea,  dic 
tating  to  four  blonde  and  two  dark-haired  stenog 
raphers  ;  three  novels,  a  couple  of  books  of  travel 
and  a  short  story  written  at  once  are  nothing  to  a 
really  enterprising  universal  genius.  Poor  Julius 
Caesar  with  his  letters ! 

We  complain  that  we  have  no  supermen  nowa 
days,  that  we  can't  live  as  much  or  as  widely  or 
as  fervently  or  get  through  so  much  work  as 
could  Pico  della  Mirandola  or  Erasmus  or  Poli- 
tian,  that  the  race  drifts  towards  mental  and  phy 
sical  anaemia.  I  deny  it.  With  the  typewriter 
all  these  things  shall  be  added  unto  us.  This  age 
too  has  its  great  universal  geniuses.  They  over 
run  the  seven  continents  and  their  respective 
seas.  Accompanied  by  mamadic  bands  of  sten 
ographers,  and  a  music  of  typewriters  deliriously 
clicking,  they  go  about  the  world,  catching  all 
the  butterflies,  rubbing  the  bloom  off  all  the 
plums,  tunneling  mountains,  bridging  seas, 
smoothing  the  facets  off  ideas  so  that  they  may 
be  swallowed  harmlessly  like  pills.  With  true 
Anglo-Saxon  conceit  we  had  thought  that  our 

[121] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

own  Mr.  Wells  was  the  most  universal  of  these 
universal  geniuses.  He  has  so  diligently  brought 
science,  ethics,  sex,  marriage,  sociology,  God,  and 
everything  else — properly  deodorized,  of  course 
— to  the  desk  of  the  ordinary  man,  that  he  may 
lean  back  in  his  swivel-chair  and  receive  faint 
susuration  from  the  sense  of  progress  and  the 
complexity  of  life,  without  even  having  to  go 
to  the  window  to  look  at  the  sparrows  sitting  in 
rows  on  the  telephone-wires,  so  that  really  it 
seemed  inconceivable  that  anyone  should  be  more 
universal.  It  was  rumored  that  there  lay  the 
ultimate  proof  of  Anglo-Saxon  ascendancy. 
What  other  race  had  produced  a  great  universal 
genius  ? 

But  all  that  was  before  the  discovery  of 
Blasco  Ibanez. 

On  the  backs  of  certain  of  Blasco  Ibanez's 
novels  published  by  the  Casa  Prometeo  in  Val 
encia  is  this  significant  advertisement:  Obras  de 
Vulgarization  Popular  ("Works  of  Popular 
Vulgarization").  Under  it  is  an  astounding  list 
of  volumes,  all  either  translated  or  edited  or  ar 
ranged,  if  not  written  from  cover  to  cover,  by 

[122] 


An  Inverted  Midas 

one  tireless  pen, — I  mean  typewriter.  Ten  vol 
umes  of  universal  history,  three  volumes  of  the 
French  Revolution  translated  from  Michelet,  a 
universal  geography,  a  social  history,  works  on 
science,  cookery  and  house-cleaning,  nine  vol 
umes  of  Blasco  Ibafiez's  own  history  of  the  Eu 
ropean  war,  and  a  translation  of  the  Arabian 
Nights,  a  thousand  and  one  of  them  without  an 
hour  missing.  "Works  of  Popular  Vulgariza 
tion."  I  admit  that  in  Spanish  the  word  vulgari 
zation  has  not  yet  sunk  to  its  inevitable  meaning, 
but  can  it  long  stand  such  a  strain?  Add  to 
that  list  a  round  two  dozen  novels  and  some  books 
of  travel,  and  who  can  deny  that  Blasco  Ibanez 
is  a  great  universal  genius?  Read  his  novels  and 
you  will  find  that  he  has  looked  at  the  stars  and 
knows  Lord  Kelvin's  theory  of  vortices  and  the 
nebular  hypothesis  and  the  direction  of  ocean  cur 
rents  and  the  qualities  of  kelp  and  the  direction 
the  codfish  go  in  Iceland  waters  when  the  north 
east  wind  blows;  that  he  knows  about  Gothic 
architecture  and  Byzantine  painting,  the  social 
movement  in  Jerez  and  the  exports  of  Pata 
gonia,  the  wall-paper  of  Paris  apartment  houses 

[123] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

and  the  red  paste  with  which  countesses  polish 
their  fingernails  in  Monte  Carlo. 

The  very  pattern  of  a  modern  major-general. 

And,  like  the  great  universal  geniuses  of  the 
Renaissance,  he  has  lived  as  well  as  thought 
and  written.  He  is  said  to  have  been  thirty  times 
in  prison,  six  times  deputy;  he  has  been  a  cow 
boy  in  the  pampas  of  Argentina ;  he  has  founded 
a  city  in  Patagonia  with  a  bullring  and  a  bust  of 
Cervantes  in  the  middle  of  it ;  he  has  rounded  the 
Horn  on  a  sailing-ship  in  a  hurricane,  and  it  is 
whispered  that  like  Victor  Hugo  he  eats  lobsters 
with  the  shells  on.  He  hobnobs  with  the  uni 
verse. 

One  must  admit,  too,  that  Blasco  Ibanez's 
universe  is  a  bulkier,  burlier  universe  than  Mr. 
Wells's.  One  is  strangely  certain  that  the  axle  of 
Mr.  Wells's  universe  is  fixed  in  some  suburb  of 
London,  say  Putney,  where  each  house  has  a  bit 
of  garden  where  waddles  an  asthmatic  pet  dog, 
where  people  drink  tea  weak,  with  milk  in  it,  be 
fore  a  gas-log,  where  every  bookcase  makes  a 
futile  effort  to  impinge  on  infinity  through  the 
encyclopedia,  where  life  is  a  monotonous  going 

[124] 


An  Inverted  Midas 

and  coming,  swathed  in  clothes  that  must  above 
all  be  respectable,  to  business  and  from  business. 
But  who  can  say  where  Blasco  Ibanez's  uni 
verse  centers?  It  is  in  constant  progression. 

Starting,  as  Walt  Whitman  from  fish-shaped 
Paumonauk,  from  the  fierce  green  fertility  of 
Valencia,  city  of  another  great  Spanish  con 
queror,  the  Cid,  he  had  marched  on  the  world 
in  battle  array.  The  whole  history  comes  out 
in  the  series  of  novels  at  this  moment  being  trans 
lated  in  such  feverish  haste  for  the  edification 
of  the  American  public.  The  beginnings  are 
stories  of  the  peasants  of  the  fertile  plain  round 
about  Valencia,  of  the  fishermen  and  sailors  of 
El  Grao,  the  port,  a  sturdy  violent  people  living 
amid  a  snappy  fury  of  vegetation  unexampled 
in  Europe.  His  method  is  inspired  to  a  certain 
extent  by  Zola,  taking  from  him  a  little  of  the 
newspaper-horror  mode  of  realism,  with  inevita 
ble  murder  and  sudden  death  in  the  last  chapters. 
Yet  he  expresses  that  life  vividly,  although  even 
then  more  given  to  grand  vague  ideas  than  to  a 
careful  scrutiny  of  men  and  things.  He  is  at 
home  in  the  strong  communal  feeling,  in  the  in- 

[125] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

dividual  anarchism,  in  the  passionate  worship  of 
the  water  that  runs  through  the  fields  to  give  life 
and  of  the  blades  of  wheat  that  give  bread  and  of 
the  wine  that  gives  joy,  which  is  the  moral  make 
up  of  the  Valencian  peasant.  He  is  sincerely 
indignant  about  the  agrarian  system,  about 
social  inequality,  and  is  full  of  the  revolutionary 
bravado  of  his  race. 

A  typical  novel  of  this  period  is  La  Barraca,  a 
story  of  a  peasant  family  that  takes  up  land 
which  has  lain  vacant  for  years  under  the  curse 
of  the  community,  since  the  eviction  of  the  ten 
ants,  who  had  held  it  for  generations,  by  a  land 
lord  who  was  murdered  as  a  result,  on  a  lonely 
road  by  the  father  of  the  family  he  had  turned 
out.  The  struggle  of  these  peasants  against  their 
neighbours  is  told  with  a  good  deal  of  feeling, 
and  the  culmination  in  a  rifle  fight  in  an  irriga 
tion  ditch  is  a  splendid  bit  of  blood  and  thunder. 
There  are  many  descriptions  of  local  customs, 
such  as  the  Tribunal  of  Water  that  sits  once  a 
week  under  one  of  the  portals  of  Valencia  cathe 
dral  to  settle  conflicts  of  irrigation  rights,  a  lit 
tle  dragged  in  by  the  heels,  to  be  sure,  but  still 

[126] 


An  Inverted  Midas 

worth  reading.  Yet  even  in  these  early  novels 
one  feels  over  and  over  again  the  force  of  that 
phrase  "popular  vulgarization."  Valencia  is  be 
ing  vulgarized  for  the  benefit  of  the  universe. 
The  proletariat  is  being  vulgarized  for  the  benefit 
of  the  people  who  buy  novels. 

From  Valencia  raids  seem  to  have  been  made 
oil  other  parts  of  Spain.  Sonnica  la  Cortesana 
gives  you  antique  Saguntum  and  the  usual 
"Aves,"  wreaths,  flute-players  and  other  claptrap 
of  costume  novels.  In  La  Catedral  you  have 
Toledo,  the  church,  socialism  and  the  modern 
world  in  the  shadow  of  Gothic  spires.  La  Bodega 
takes  you  into  the  genial  air  of  the  wine  vaults  of 
Jerez-de-la-Frontera,  with  smugglers,  proces 
sions  blessing  the  vineyards  and  agrarian  revolt 
in  the  background.  Up  to  now  they  have  been 
Spanish  novels  written  for  Spaniards;  it  is  only 
with  Sangre  y  Arena  that  the  virus  of  a  Eu 
ropean  reputation  shows  results. 

In  Sangre  y  Arena,  to  be  sure,  you  learn  that 
toreros  use  scent,  have  a  home  life,  and  are  se 
duced  by  passionate  Baudelairian  ladies  of  the 
smart  set  who  plant  white  teeth  in  their  brown 

[127] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

sinewy  arms  and  teach  them  to  smoke  opium  cig 
arettes.  You  see  toreros  taking  the  sacraments 
before  going  into  the  ring  and  you  see  them  tossed 
by  the  bull  while  the  crowd,  which  a  moment  be 
fore  had  been  crying  "hola"  as  if  it  didn't  know 
that  something  was  going  wrong,  gets  very  pale 
and  chilly  and  begins  to  think  what  dreadful 
things  corridas  are  anyway,  until  the  arrival 
of  the  next  bull  makes  them  forget  it.  All  of 
which  is  good  fun  when  not  obscured  by  grand, 
vague  ideas,  and  incidentally  sells  like  hot 
cakes.  Thenceforward  the  Casa  Prometeo  be 
comes  an  exporting  house  dealing  in  the  good 
Spanish  products  of  violence  and  sunshine,  blood, 
voluptuousness  and  death,  as  another  vulgarizer 
put  it. 

Next  comes  the  expedition  to  South  America 
and  The  Argonauts  appears.  The  Atlantic  is 
bridged, — there  open  up  rich  veins  of  pictur- 
esqueness  and  new  grand  vague  ideas,  all  in 
full  swing  when  the  war  breaks  out.  Blasco 
Ibanez  meets  the  challenge  nobly,  and  very  soon, 
with  The  Four  Horsemen  of  the  Apocalypse, 
which  captures  the  Allied  world  and  proves  again 

[128] 


An  Inverted  Midas 

the  mot  about  prophets.  So  without  honor  in 
its  own  country  is  the  Four  Horsemen  that  the 
English  translation  rights  are  sold  for  a  paltry 
three  thousand  pesetas.  But  the  great  success 
in  England  and  America  soon  shows  that  we 
can  appreciate  the  acumen  of  a  neutral  who  came 
in  and  rooted  for  our  side;  so  early  in  the  race 
too !  While  the  iron  is  still  hot  another  four  hun 
dred  pages  of  well-sugared  pro-Ally  propaganda 
appears,  Mare  Nostrum,,  which  mingles  Ulysses 
and  scientific  information  about  ocean  currents, 
Amphitrite  and  submarines,  Circe  and  a  vamp 
ing  Theda  Bara  who  was  really  a  German  Spy, 
in  one  grand  chant  of  praise  before  the  Mumbo- 
Jumbo  of  nationalism. 

Los  Enemigos  de  la  Mujer,  the  latest  produc 
tion,  abandons  Spain  entirely  and  plants  itself 
in  the  midst  of  princes  and  countesses,  all  elab 
orately  pro-Ally,  at  Monte  Carlo.  Forgotten 
the  proletarian  tastes  of  his  youth,  the  local  color 
he  loved  to  lay  on  so  thickly,  the  Habanera  at 
mosphere;  only  the  grand  vague  ideas  subsist  in 
the  cosmopolite,  and  the  fluency,  that  fatal  Latin 
fluency. 

[129] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

And  now  the  United  States,  the  home  of  the 
blonde  stenographer  and  the  typewriter  and  the 
press  agent.  What  are  we  to  expect  from  the 
combination  of  Blasco  Ibanez  and  Broadway? 

At  any  rate  the  movies  will  profit. 

Yet  one  can't  help  wishing  that  Blasco  Ibanez 
had  not  learnt  the  typewriter  trick  so  early. 
Print  so  easily  spins  a  web  of  the  commonplace 
over  the  fine  outlines  of  life.  And  Blasco  Ibanez 
need  not  have  been  an  inverted  Midas.  His  is 
a  superbly  Mediterranean  type,  with  something 
of  Arretino,  something  of  Garibaldi,  something 
of  Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  Blustering,  sensual,  en 
thusiastic,  living  at  bottom  in  a  real  world — 
which  can  hardly  be  said  of  Anglo-Saxon  vul- 
garizers — even  if  it  is  a  real  world  obscured  by 
grand  vague  ideas,  Blasco  Ibanez's  mere  energy 
would  have  produced  interesting  things  if  it  had 
not  found  such  easy  and  immediate  vent  in  the 
typewriter.  Bottle  up  a  man  like  that  for  a  life 
time  without  means  of  expression  and  he'll  pro 
duce  memoirs  equal  to  Marco  Polo  and  Casano 
va,  but  let  his  energies  flow  out  evenly  without 

[130] 


An  Inverted  Midas 

resistance  through  a  corps  of  clicking  typewriters 
and  all  you  have  is  one  more  popular  novelist. 

It  is  unfortunate  too  that  Blasco  Ibanez  and 
the  United  States  should  have  discovered  each 
other  at  this  moment.  They  will  do  each  other 
no  good.  We  have  an  abundance  both  of  vague 
grand  ideas  and  of  popular  novelists,  and  we  are 
the  favorite  breeding  place  of  the  inverted  Midas. 
We  need  writing  that  shall  be  acid,  with  sharp 
edges  on  it,  yeasty  to  leaven  the  lump  of  glucose 
that  the  combination  of  the  ideals  of  the  man  in 
the  swivel-chair  with  decayed  puritanism  has 
made  of  our  national  consciousness.  Of  course 
Blasco  Ibanez  in  America  will  only  be  a  seven 
days'  marvel.  Nothing  is  ever  more  than  that. 
But  why  need  we  pretend  each  time  that  our 
seven  days'  marvels  are  the  great  eternal  things? 

Then,  too,  if  the  American  public  is  bound 
to  take  up  Spain  it  might  as  well  take  up  the 
worth-while  things  instead  of  the  works  of  popu 
lar  vulgarization.  They  have  enough  of  those  in 
their  bookcases  as  it  is.  And  in  Spain  there  is 
a  novelist  like  Baroja,  essayists  like  Unamuno 

[131]  ' 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

and  Azorin,  poets  like  Valle  Inclan  and  Antonio 
Machado,  .  .  .  but  I  suppose  they  will  shine 
with  the  reflected  glory  of  the  author  of  the  Four 
Horsemen  of  the  Apocalypse. 


[132] 


X:  Talk  by  the  Road 

WHEN  they  woke  up  it  was  dark.  They 
were  cold.  Their  legs  were  stiff.  They 
lay  each  along  one  edge  of  a  tremendously  wide 
bed,  between  them  a  tangle  of  narrow  sheets  and 
blankets.  Telemachus  raised  himself  to  a  sitting 
position  and  put  his  feet,  that  were  still  swollen, 
gingerly  to  the  floor.  He  drew  them  up  again 
with  a  jerk  and  sat  with  his  teeth  chattering 
hunched  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  Lyaeus  bur 
rowed  into  the  blankets  and  went  back  to  sleep. 
For  a  long  while  Telemachus  could  not  thaw  his 
frozen  wits  enough  to  discover  what  noise  had 
waked  him  up.  Then  it  came  upon  him  suddenly 
that  huge  rhythms  were  pounding  about  him, 
sounds  of  shaken  tambourines  and  castanettes 
and  beaten  dish-pans  and  roaring  voices.  Some 
one  was  singing  in  shrill  tremolo  above  the  din  a 
song  of  which  each  verse  seemed  to  end  with  the 
phrase,  <ey  mamma  Carnaval." 

[133] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

"To-morrow's  Carnival.  Wake  up,"  he  cried 
out  to  Lyaeus,  and  pulled  on  his  trousers. 

Lyaeus  sat  up  and  rubbed  his  eyes. 

"I  smell  wine,"  he  said. 

Telemachus,  through  hunger  and  stiffness  and 
aching  feet  and  the  thought  of  what  his  mother 
Penelope  would  say  about  these  goings  on,  if 
they  ever  came  to  her  ears,  felt  a  tremendous  ela 
tion  flare  through  him. 

"Come  on,  they're  dancing,"  he  cried  dragging 
Lyaeus  out  on  the  gallery  that  overhung  the  end 
of  the  court. 

"Don't  forget  the  butterfly  net,  Tel." 

"What  for?" 

"To  catch  your  gesture,  what  do  you  think?" 

Telemachus  caught  Lyaeus  by  the  shoulders 
and  shook  him.  As  they  wrestled  they  caught 
glimpses  of  the  courtyard  full  of  couples  bobbing 
up  and  down  in  a  jota.  In  the  doorway  stood  two 
guitar  players  and  beside  them  a  table  with  pitch 
ers  and  glasses  and  a  glint  of  spilt  wine.  Fee 
ble  light  came  from  an  occasional  little  constel 
lation  of  olive-oil  lamps.  When  the  two  of  them 
pitched  down  stairs  together  and  shot  out  reeling 

[134] 


Talk  by  the  Road 

among  the  dancers  everybody  cried  out:  "Hola" 
and  shouted  thait  the  foreigners  must  sing  a 
song. 

"After  dinner,"  cried  Lyaeus  as  he  straight 
ened  his  necktie.  "We  haven't  eaten  for  a  year 
and  a  half!" 

The  padron,  a  red  thick-necked  individual  with 
a  week's  white  bristle  on  his  face,  came  up  to 
them  holding  out  hands  as  big  as  hams. 

"You  are  going  to  Toledo  for  Carnival?  O 
how  lucky  the  young  are,  travelling  all  over  the 
world."  He  turned  to  the  company  with  a  ges 
ture  ;  "I  was  like  that  when  I  was  young." 

They  followed  him  into  the  kitchen,  where  they 
ensconced  themselves  on  either  side  of  a  cave  of  a 
fireplace  in  which  burned  a  fire  all  too  small. 
The  hunchbacked  woman  with  a  face  like  tanned 
leather  who  was  tending  the  numerous  steaming 
pots  that  stood  about  the  hearth,  noticing  that 
they  were  shivering,  heaped  dry  twigs  on  it  that 
crackled  and  burst  into  flame  and  gave  out  a 
warm  spicy  tang. 

"To-morrow's  Carnival,"  she  said.  "We 
mustn't  stint  ourselves."  Then  she  handed  them 

[135] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

each  a  plate  of  soup  full  of  bread  in  which 
poached  eggs  floated,  and  the  padron  drew  the 
table  near  the  fire  and  sat  down  opposite  them, 
peering  with  interest  into  their  faces  while  they 
ate. 

After  a  while  he  began  talking.  From  outside 
the  hand-clapping  and  the  sound  of  castanettes 
continued  interrupted  by  intervals  of  shouting 
and  laughter  and  an  occasional  snatch  from  the 
song  that  ended  every  verse  with  ffy  manana  Car- 
naval." 

"I  travelled  when  I  was  your  age,"  he  said. 
"I  have  been  to  America  .  .  .  Nueva  York, 
Montreal,  Buenos  Aires,  Chicago,  San  Fran 
cisco  .  .  .  Selling  those  little  nuts  .  .  .  Yes, 
peanuts.  What  a  country!  How  many  laws 
there  are  there,  how  many  policemen.  When  I 
was  young  I  did  not  like  it,  but  now  that  I  am  old 
and  own  an  inn  and  daughters  and  all  that,  vamos, 
I  understand.  You  see  in  Spain  we  all  do  just 
as  we  like;  then,  if  we  are  the  sort  that  goes  to 
church  we  repent  afterwards  and  fix  it  up  with 
God.  In  European,  civilized,  modern  countries 

[136] 


Talk  by  the  Road 

everybody  learns  what  he's  got  to  do  and  what 
he  must  not  do  ...  That's  why  they  have  so 
many  laws  .  .  .  Here  the  police  are  just  to  help 
the  government  plunder  and  steal  all  it  wants 
.  .  .  But  that's  not  so  in  America  .  .  ." 

"The  difference  is,"  broke  in  Telemachus, 
"as  Butler  put  it,  between  living  under  the  law 
and  living  under  grace.  I  should  rather  live 
under  gra  .  .  ."  But  he  thought  of  the  max 
ims  of  Penelope  and  was  silent. 

"But  after  all  we  know  how  to  sing,"  said  the 
Padron.  "Will  you  have  coffee  with  cognac? 
.  .  .  And  poets,  man  alive,  what  poets!" 

The  padron  stuck  out  his  chest,  put  one  hand 
in  the  black  sash  that  held  up  his  trousers  and 
recited,  emphasizing  the  rhythm  with  the  cognac 
bottle: 

'Aqui  esta  Don  Juan  Tenorio; 
no  hay  hombre  para  el  ... 
Busquenle  los  refiidores, 
cerquenle  los  jugadores, 
quien  se  precie  que  le  ataje, 
a  ver  si  hay  quien  le  aventaje 
en  juego,  en  lid  o  en  amores.' 
[137] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

He  finished  with  a  flourish  and  poured  more 
cognac  into  the  coffee  cups. 

ffiQue  bonito!  How  pretty!"  cried  the  old 
hunchbacked  woman  who  sat  on  her  heels  in  the 
fireplace. 

"That's  what  we  do,"  said  the  padron.  "We 
brawl  and  gamble  and  seduce  women,  and  we 
sing  and  we  dance,  and  then  we  repent  and  the 
priest  fixes  it  up  with  God.  In  America  they 
live  according  to  law." 

Feeling  well-toasted  by  the  fire  and  well- 
warmed  with  food  and  drink,  Lyaeus  and  Tele- 
machus  went  to  the  inn  door  and  looked  out  on 
the  broad  main  street  of  the  village  where  every 
thing  was  snowy  white  under  the  cold  stare  of 
the  moon.  The  dancing  had  stopped  in  the  court 
yard.  A  group  of  men  and  boys  was  moving 
slowly  up  the  street,  each  one  with  a  musical 
instrument.  There  were  the  two  guitars,  frying 
pans,  castanettes,  cymbals,  and  a  goatskin  bot 
tle  of  wine  that  kept  being  passed  from  hand  to 
hand.  Each  time  the  bottle  made  a  round  a  new 
song  started.  And  so  they  moved  slowly  up  the 
street  in  the  moonlight. 

[138] 


Talk  by  the  Road 

"Let's  join  them,"  said  Lyaeus. 

"No,  I  want  to  get  up  early  so  as  .  .  ." 

"To  see  the  gesture  by  daylight!"  cried  Ly- 
aeus  jeeringly.  Then  he  went  on:  "Tel,  you 
live  under  the  law.  Under  the  law  there  can 
be  no  gestures,  only  machine  movements." 

Then  he  ran  off  and  joined  the  group  of  men 
and  boys  who  were  singing  and  drinking.  Tele- 
machus  went  back  to  bed.  On  his  way  upstairs 
he  cursed  the  maxims  of  his  mother  Penelope. 
But  at  any  rate  to-morrow,  in  Carnival-time,  he 
would  feel  the  gesture. 


[139] 


XI:  Antonio  Machado:  Poet  of  Castile 

1  SPENT  fifty  thousand  pesetas  in  a  year  at 
the  military  school  .  .  .  J'aime  le  cMc"  said 
the  young  artillery  officer  of  whom  I  had  asked 
the  way.  He  was  leading  me  up  the  steep  cobbled 
hill  that  led  to  the  irregular  main  street  of  Segov 
ia.  A  moment  before  we  had  passed  under  the 
aqueduct  that  had  soared  above  us  arch  upon 
arch  into  the  crimson  sky.  He  had  snapped 
tightly  gloved  fingers  and  said:  "And  what's 
that  good  for,  I'd  like  to  know.  I'd  give  it  all 
for  a  puff  of  gasoline  from  a  Hispano-Suizo 
.  .  .  D 'you  know  the  Hispano-Suizo?  And  look 
at  this  rotten  town!  There's  not  a  street  in  it  I 
can  speed  on  in  a  motorcycle  without  running 
down  some  fool  old  woman  or  a  squalling  brat  or 
other  .  .  .  Who's  this  gentleman  you  are  going 
to  see?" 

"He's  a  poet,"  I  said. 

"I  like  poetry  too.  I  write  it  ...  light,  ele- 
[140] 


Antonio  Machado:  Poet  of  Castile 

gant,  about  light  elegant  women."  He  laughed 
and  twirled  the  tiny  waxed  spike  that  stuck  out 
from  each  side  of  his  moustache. 

He  left  me  at  the  end  of  the  street  I  was  look 
ing  for,  and  after  an  elaborate  salute  walked  off 
saying: 

"To  think  that  you  should  come  here  from 
New  York  to  look  for  an  address  in  such  a  shabby 
street,  and  I  so  want  to  go  to  New  York.  If  I 
was  a  poet  I  wouldn't  live  here." 

The  name  on  the  street  corner  was  Calle  de 
los  Desemparados  .  .  .  "Street  of  Abandoned 
Children." 

We  sat  a  long  while  in  the  casino,  twiddling 
spoons  in  coffee-glasses  while  a  wax-pink  fat 
man  played  billiards  in  front  of  us,  being  pon 
derously  beaten  by  a  lean  brownish  swallow-tail 
with  yellow  face  and  walrus  whiskers  that  emit 
ted  a  rasping  Bueno  after  every  play.  There 
was  talk  of  Paris  and  possible  new  volumes  of 
verse,  homage  to  Walt  Whitman,  Maragall, 
questioning  about  Emily  Dickinson.  About  us 
was  a  smell  of  old  horsehair  sofas,  a  buzz  of  the 

[141] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

poignant  musty  ennui  of  old  towns  left  centuries 
ago  high  and  dry  on  the  beach  of  history.  The 
group  grew.  Talk  of  painting:  Zuloaga  had  not 
come  yet,  the  Zubiaurre  brothers  had  abandoned 
their  Basque  coast  towns,  seduced  by  the  bronze- 
colored  people  and  the  saffron  hills  of  the  prov 
ince  of  Segovia.  Sorolla  was  dying,  another  had 
gone  mad.  At  last  someone  said,  "It's  stifling 
here,  let's  walk.  There  is  full  moon  to-night." 

There  was  no  sound  in  the  streets  but  the  ir 
regular  clatter  of  our  footsteps.  The  slanting 
moonlight  cut  the  street  into  two  triangular  sec 
tions,  one  enormously  black,  the  other  bright,  en 
graved  like  a  silver  plate  with  the  lines  of  doors, 
roofs,  windows,  ornaments.  Overhead  the  sky 
was  white  and  blue  like  buttermilk.  Blackness 
cut  across  our  path,  then  there  was  dazzling  light 
through  an  arch  beyond.  Outside  the  gate  we 
sat  in  a  ring  on  square  fresh-cut  stones  in  which 
you  could  still  feel  a  trace  of  the  warmth  of  the 
sun.  To  one  side  was  the  lime-washed  wall  of  a 
house,  white  fire,  cut  by  a  wide  oaken  door  where 
the  moon  gave  a  restless  glitter  to  the  spiked  nails 
and  the  knocker,  and  above  the  door  red  geran- 

[142] 


Antonio  Machado:  Poet  of  Castile 

iums  hanging  out  of  a  pot,  their  color  insanely 
bright  in  the  silver-white  glare.  The  other  side 
a  deep  glen,  the  shimmering  tops  of  poplar  trees 
and  the  sound  of  a  stream.  In  the  dark  above  the 
arch  of  the  gate  a  trembling  oil  flame  showed  up 
the  green  feet  of  a  painted  Virgin.  Everybody 
was  talking  about  El  Buscon,  a  story  of  Que- 
vedo's  that  takes  place  mostly  in  Segovia,  a 
wandering  story  of  thieves  and  escapes  by  night 
through  the  back  doors  of  brothels,  of  rope  lad 
ders  dangling  from  the  windows  of  great  ladies, 
of  secrets  overheard  in  confessionals,  and  trysts 
under  bridges,  and  fingers  touching  significantly 
in  the  holy- water  fonts  of  tall  cathedrals.  A 
ghostlike  wraith  of  dust  blew  through  the  gate. 
The  man  next  me  shivered. 

"The  dead  are  stronger  than  the  living,"  he 
said.  "How  little  we  have ;  and  they.  .  ." 

In  the  quaver  of  his  voice  was  a  remembering 
of  long  muletrains  jingling  through  the  gate, 
queens  in  litters  hung  with  patchwork  curtains 
from  Samarcand,  gold  brocades  splashed  with 
the  clay  of  deep  roads,  stained  with  the  blood  of 
ambuscades,  bales  of  silks  from  Valencia,  travel- 

[143] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

ling  gangs  of  Moorish  artisans,  heavy  armed 
Templars  on  their  way  to  the  Sepulchre,  wander 
ing  minstrels,  sneakthieves,  bawds,  rowdy  strings 
of  knights  and  foot-soldiers  setting  out  with 
wine-skins  at  their  saddlebows  to  cross  the  passes 
towards  the  debatable  lands  of  Extremadura, 
where  there  were  infidels  to  kill  and  cattle  to 
drive  off  and  village  girls  to  rape,  all  when  the 
gate  was  as  new  and  crisply  cut  out  of  clean 
stone  as  the  blocks  we  were  sitting  on.  Down  in 
the  valley  a  donkey  brayed  long  and  dismally. 

"They  too  have  their  nostalgias,"  said  some 
one  sentimentally. 

"What  they  of  the  old  time  did  not  have," 
came  a  deep  voice  from  under  a  bowler  hat,  "was 
the  leisure  to  be  sad.  The  sweetness  of  putrefac 
tion,  the  long  remembering  of  palely  colored 
moods;  they  had  the  sun,  we  have  the  colors  of 
its  setting.  Who  shall  say  which  is  worth  more?" 

The  man  next  to  me  had  got  to  his  feet.  "A 
night  like  this  with  a  moon  like  this,"  he  said, 
"we  should  go  to  the  ancient  quarter  of  the 
witches." 

Gravel  crunched  under  our  feet  down  the  road 
[144] 


Antonio  Machado:  Poet  of  Castile 

that  led  out  of  moonlight  into  the  darkness  of  the 
glen — to  San  Milldn  de  las  brujas. 

You  tfannot  read  any  Spanish  poet  of  to-day 
without  thinking  now  and  then  of  Ruben  Dario, 
that  prodigious  Nicaraguan  who  collected  into 
his  verse  all  the  tendencies  of  poetry  in  France 
and  America  and  the  Orient  and  poured  them  in 
a  turgid  cataract,  full  of  mud  and  gold-dust,  into 
the  thought  of  the  new  generation  in  Spain. 
Overflowing  with  beauty  and  banality,  patched 
out  with  images  and  ornaments  from  Greece  and 
Egypt  and  France  and  Japan  and  his  own  Cen 
tral  America,  symbolist  and  romantic  and  Par 
nassian  all  at  once,  Ruben  Dario's  verse  is  like 
those  doorways  of  the  Spanish  Renaissance  where 
French  and  Moorish  and  Italian  motives  jostle  in 
headlong  arabesques,  where  the  vulgarest  routine 
stone-chipping  is  interlocked  with  designs  and 
forms  of  rare  beauty  and  significance.  Here  and 
there  among  the  turgid  muddle,  out  of  the  impact 
of  unassimilated  things,  comes  a  spark  of  real 
poetry.  And  that  spark  can  be  said — as  truly  as 
anything  of  the  sort  can  be  said — to  be  the  mo- 

[145] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

tive  force  of  the  whole  movement  of  renovation 
in  Spanish  poetry.  Of  course  the  poets  have  not 
been  content  to  be  influenced  by  the  outside  world 
only  through  Dario.  Baudelaire  and  Verlaine 
had  a  very  large  direct  influence,  once  the  way 
was  opened,  and  their  influence  succeeded  in  curb 
ing  the  lush  impromptu  manner  of  romantic 
Spanish  verse.  In  Antonio  Machado's  work — 
and  he  is  beginning  to  be  generally  considered 
the  central  figure — there  is  a  restraint  and  terse 
ness  of  phrase  rare  in  any  poetry. 

I  do  not  mean  to  imply  that  Machado  can  be 
called  in  any  real  sense  a  pupil  of  either  Dario 
or  Verlaine;  rather  one  would  say  that  in  a  gen 
eration  occupied  largely  in  more  or  less  unsuc 
cessful  imitation  of  these  poets,  Machado's  poe 
try  stands  out  as  particularly  original  and  per 
sonal.  In  fact,  except  for  the  verse  of  Juan 
Ramon  Jimenez,  it  would  be  in  America  and 
England  rather  than  in  Spain,  in  Aldington  and 
Amy  Lowell,  that  one  would  find  analogous  aims 
and  methods.  The  influence  of  the  symbolists 
and  the  turbulent  experimenting  of  the  Nicara- 
guan  broke  down  the  bombastic  romantic  style 

[146] 


Antonio  Machado:  Poet  of  Castile 

current  in  Spain,  as  it  was  broken  down  every 
where  else  in  the  middle  nineteenth  century.  In 
Machado's  work  a  new  method  is  being  built  up, 
that  harks  back  more  to  early  ballads  and  the 
verse  of  the  first  moments  of  the  Renaissance 
than  to  anything  foreign,  but  which  shows  the 
same  enthusiasm  for  the  rhythms  of  ordinary 
speech  and  for  the  simple  pictorial  expression  of 
undoctored  emotion  that  we  find  in  the  renova 
tors  of  poetry  the  world  over.  Campos  de  Cas- 
tilla,  his  first  volume  to  be  widely  read,  marks  an 
epoch  in  Spanish  poetry. 

Antonio  Machado 's  verse  is  taken  up  with 
places.  It  is  obsessed  with  the  old  Spanish  towns 
where  he  has  lived,  with  the  mellow  sadness  of 
tortuous  streets  and  of  old  houses  that  have 
soaked  up  the  lives  of  generations  upon  genera 
tions  of  men,  crumbling  in  the  flaming  silence  of 
summer  noons  or  in  the  icy  blast  off  the  mountains 
in  winter.  Though  born  in  Andalusia,  the  bitter 
strength  of  the  Castilian  plain,  where  half-de 
serted  cities  stand  aloof  from  the  world,  shrunken 
into  their  walls,  still  dreaming  of  the  ages  of 
faith  and  conquest,  has  subjected  his  imagina- 

[147] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

tion,  and  the  purity  of  Castilian  speech  has  dom 
inated  his  writing,  until  his  poems  seem  as  Cas 
tilian  as  Don  Quixote. 

"My  childhood:  memories  of  a  courtyard  in  Seville, 
and  of  a  bright  garden  where  lemons  hung  ripening. 
My  youth :  twenty  years  in  the  land  of  Castile. 
My  history:  a  few  events  I  do  not  care  to  remember." 

So  Machado  writes  of  himself.  He  was  born  in 
the  eighties,  has  been  a  teacher  of  French  in  gov 
ernment  schools  in  Soria  and  Baeza  and  at  pres 
ent  in  Segovia — all  old  Spanish  cities  very  mel 
low  and  very  stately — and  has  made  the  migra 
tion  to  Paris  customary  with  Spanish  writers  and 
artists.  He  says  in  the  Poema  de  un  Dia: 

Here  I  am,  already  a  teacher 
of  modern  languages,  who  yesterday 
was  a  master  of  the  gai  scavoir 
and  the  nightingale's   apprentice. 

He  has  published  three  volumes  of  verse,  Sole- 
dades  ("Solitudes"),  Campos  de  Castillo, 
("Fields  of  Castile"),  and  Soledades  y  Galenas 
("Solitudes  and  Galleries"),  and  recently  a  gov 
ernment  institution,  the  Residencia  de  Estudian- 

[148] 


Antonio  Machado:  Poet  of  Castile 

tes,  has  published  his  complete  works  up  to  date. 
The  following  translations  are  necessarily  in 
adequate,  as  the  poems  depend  very  much  on 
modulations  of  rhythm  and  on  the  expressive 
fitting  together  of  words  impossible  to  render  in 
a  foreign  language.  He  uses  rhyme  compara 
tively  little,  often  substituting  assonance  in  ac 
cordance  with  the  peculiar  traditions  of  Spanish 
prosody.  I  have  made  no  attempt  to  imitate  his 
form  exactly. 


Yes,  come  away  with  me — fields  of  Soria, 

quiet  evenings,  violet  mountains, 

aspens  of  the  river,  green  dreams 

of  the  grey  earth, 

bitter  melancholy 

of  the  crumbling  city — 

perhaps  it  is  that  you  have  become 

the  background  of  my  life. 

Men  of  the  high  Numantine  plain, 
who  keep  God  like  old — Christians, 
may  the  sun  of  Spain  fill  you 
with  joy  and  light  and  abundance! 
[149] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 
II 

A  frail  sound  of  a  tunic  trailing 
across  the  infertile  earth, 
and  the  sonorous  weeping 
of  the  old  bells. 
The  dying  embers 
of  the  horizon  smoke. 
White  ancestral  ghosts 
go  lighting  the  stars. 

— Open  the  balcony-window.     The  hour 
of  illusion  draws  near  .  .  . 
The  afternoon  has  gone  to  sleep 
and  the  bells  dream. 


Ill 


Figures  in  the  fields  against  the  sky! 
Two  slow  oxen  plough 
on  a  hillside  early  in  autumn, 
and  between  the  black  heads  bent  down 
under  the  weight  of  the  yoke, 
hangs  and  sways  a  basket  of  reeds, 
a  child's  cradle; 
And  behind  the  yoke  stride 
a  man  who*  leans  towards  the  earth 
and  a  woman  who,  into  the  open  furrows, 
[150] 


Antonio  Machado:  Poet  of  Castile 

throws  the  seed. 

Under  a  cloud  of  carmine  and  flame, 
in  the  liquid  green  gold  of  the  setting, 
their  shadows  grow  monstrous. 


IV 


Naked  is  the  earth 

and  the  soul  howls  to  the  wan  horizon 

like  a  hungry  she-wolf. 

What  do  you  seek, 
poet,  in  the  sunset? 
Bitter  going,  for  the  path 
weighs  one  down,  the  frozen  wind, 
and  the  coming  night  and  the  bitterness 
of  distance  .  .  .  On  the  white  path 
the  trunks  of  frustrate  trees  show  black, 
on  the  distant  mountains 
there  is  gold  and  blood.     The  sun  dies  .  .  . 

What  do  you  seek, 
poet,  in  the  sunset? 


Silver  hills  and  grey  ploughed  lands, 
violet  outcroppings  of  rock 
[151] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

through  which  the  Duero  traces 

its  curve  like  a  cross-bow 

about  Soria, 

dark  oak-wood,  wild  cliffs, 

bald  peaks, 

and  the  white  roads  and  the  aspens  of  the  river. 

Afternoons  of  Soria,  mystic  and  warlike, 

to-day  I  am  very  sad  for  you, 

sadness  of  love, 

Fields  of  Soria, 

where  it  seems  that  the  rocks  dream, 

come  with  me!     Violet  rocky  outcroppings, 

silver  hills  and  grey  ploughed  lands. 


VI 


We  think  to  create  festivals 
of  love  out  of  our  love, 
to  burn  new  incense 
on  untrodden  mountains; 
and  to  keep  the  secret 
of  our  pale  faces, 
and  why  in  the  bacchanals  of  life 
we  carry  empty  glasses, 
while  with  tinkling  echoes  and  laughing 
foams  the  gold  must  of  the  grape.  .  .   . 
[152] 


Antonio  Machado:  Poet  of  Castile 

A  hidden  bird  among  the  branches 

of  the  solitary  park 

whistles  mockery.  .  .  .  We  feel 

the  shadow  of  a  dream  in  our  wine-glass, 

and  something  that  is  earth  in  our  flesh 

feels  the  dampness  of  the  garden  like  a  caress, 

VII 

I  have  been  back  to  see  the  golden  aspens, 

aspens  of  the  road  along  the  Duero 

between  San  Polo  and  San  Saturio, 

beyond  the  old  stiff  walls 

of  Soria,  barbican 

towards  Aragon  of  the  Castilian  lands. 

These  poplars  of  the  river,  that  chime 

when  the  wind  blows  their  dry  leaves 

to  the  sound  of  the  water, 

have  in  their  bark  the  names  of  lovers, 

initials  and  dates. 

Aspens  of  love  where  yesterday 

the  branches  were  full  of  nightingales, 

aspens  that  to-morrow  will  sing 

under  the  scented  wind  of  the  springtime, 

aspens  of  love  by  the  water 

that  speeds  and  goes  by  dreaming, 

aspens  of  the  bank  of  the  Duero, 

come  away  with  me. 

[153] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

VIII 

Cold  Soria,  clear  Soria, 
key  of  the  outlands, 
with  the  warrior  castle 
in  ruins  beside  the  Duero, 
and  the  stiff  old  walls, 
and  the  blackened  houses. 

Dead  city  of  barons 

and  soldiers  and  huntsmen, 

whose  portals  bear  the  shields 

of  a  hundred  hidalgos; 

city  of  hungry  greyhounds, 

of  lean  greyhounds 

that  swarm 

among  the  dirty  lanes 

and  howl  at  midnight 

when  the  crows  caw. 

Cold   Soria!     The  clock 

of  the  Lawcourts  has  struck  one. 

Soria,  city  of  Castile, 

so  beautiful  under  the  moon. 

IX 
AT  A  FRIEND'S  BURIAL 

They  put  him  away  in  the  earth 
a  horrible  July  afternoon 
under  a  sun  of  fire. 

[154] 


Antonio  Machado:  Poet  of  Castile 

A  step  from  the  open  grave 
grew  roses  with  rotting  petals 
among  geraniums  of  bitter  fragrance, 
red-flowered.     The  sky 
a  pale  blue.     A  wind 
hard  and  dry. 

Hanging  on  the  thick  ropes, 
the  two  gravediggers 
let  the  coffin  heavily 
down  into  the  grave. 

It  struck  the  bottom  with  a  sharp  sound, 
solemnly,  in  the  silence. 

The  sound  of  a  coffin  striking  the  earth 
is  something  unutterably  solemn. 

The  heavy  clods  broke  into  dust 
over  the  black  coffin. 

A  white  mist  of  dust  rose  in  the  air 
out  of  the  deep  grave. 

And  you,  without  a  shadow  now,  sleep. 
Long  peace  to  your  bones. 
For  all  time 

you  sleep  a  tranquil  and  a  real  sleep. 
[155] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 


THE  IBERIAN  GOD 

Like  the  cross-bowman, 
the  gambler  in  the  song, 
the  Iberian  had  an  arrow  for  his  god 
when  he  shattered  the  grain  with  hail 
and  ruined  the  fruits  of  autumn; 
and  a  gloria  when  he  fattened 
the  barley  and  the  oats 
that  were  to  make  bread  to-morrow. 
"God  of  ruin, 

I  worship  because  I  wait  and  because  I  fear. 
I  bend  in  prayer  to  the  earth 
a  blasphemous  heart. 

"Lord,  through  whom  I  snatch  my  bread  with  pain, 
I  know  your  strength,  I  know  my  slavery. 
Lord  of  the  clouds  in  the  east 
that  trample  the  country-side, 
of  dry  autumns  and  late  frosts 
and  of  the  blasts  of  heat  that  scorch  the  harvests ! 

"Lord  of  the  iris  in  the  green  meadows 
where  the  sheep  graze, 
Lord  of  the  fruit  the  worms  gnaw 
and  of  the  hut  the  whirlwind  shatters, 
your  breath  gives  life  to  the  fire  in  the  hearthj 
[156] 


Antonio  Machado:  Poet  of  Castile 

your  warmth  ripens  the  tawny  grain, 
and  your  holy  hand,  St.  John's  eve, 
hardens  the  stone  of  the  green  olive. 

"Lord  of  riches  and  poverty, 
Of  fortune  and  mishap, 
who  gives  to  the  rich  luck  and  idleness, 
and  pain  and  hope  to  the  poor ! 

"Lord,  Lord,  in  the  inconstant  wheel 
of  the  year  I  have  sown  my  sowing 
that  has  an  equal  chance  with  the  coins 
of  a  gambler  sown  on  the  gambling-table! 

"Lord,  a  father  to-day,  though  stained  with  yes 
terday's  blood, 

two-faced  of  love  and  vengeance, 
to  you,  dice  cast  into  the  wind, 
goes  my  prayer,  blasphemy  and  praise!" 

This  man  who  insults  God  in  his  altars, 

without  more  care  of  the  frown  of  fate, 

also  dreamed  of  paths  across  the  seas 

and  said :  "It  is  God  who  walks  upon  the  waters." 

Is  it  not  he  who  put  God  above  war, 
beyond  fate, 
beyond  the  earth, 
beyond  the  sea  and  death? 
[157] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

Did  he  not  give  the  greenest  bough 
of  the  dark-green  Iberian  oak 
for  God's  holy  bonfire, 
and  for  love  flame  one  with  God? 

But  to-day  .  .  .  What  does  a  day  matter? 

for  the  new  household  gods 

there  are  plains  in  forest  shade 

and  green  boughs  in  the  old  oak-woods. 

Though  long  the  land  waits 

for  the  curved  plough  to  open  the  first  furrow, 

there  is  sowing  for  God's  grain 

under  thistles  and  burdocks  and  nettles. 

What  does  a  day  matter?     Yesterday  waits 
for  to-morrow,  to-morrow  for  infinity; 
men  of  Spain,  neither  is  the  past  dead, 
nor  is  to-morrow,  nor  yesterday,  written. 

Who  has  seen  the  face  of  the  Iberian  God? 

I  wait 

for  the  Iberian  man  who  with  strong  hands 

will  carve  out  of  Castilian  oak 

The  parched  God  of  the  grey  land. 


[158] 


XII:  A  Catalan  Poet 

It  is  time  for  sailing;  the  swallow  has  come  chattering 
and  the  mellow  west  wind;  the  meadows  are  already  in 
bloom;  the  sea  is  silent  and  the  waves  the  rough  winds  pum- 
meled.  Up  anchors  and  loose  the  hawsers,  sailor,  set  every 
stitch  of  canvas.  This  I,  Priapos  the  harbor  god,  command 
you,  man,  that  you  may  sail  for  all  manner  of  ladings. 
(JLeonidas  in  the  Greek  Anthology.) 

CATALONIA  like  Greece  is  a  country  of 
mountains  and  harbors,  where  the  farmers 
and  herdsmen  of  the  hills  can  hear  in  the  morn 
ing  the  creak  of  oars  and  the  crackling  of  cord 
age  as  the  great  booms  of  the  wing-shaped 
sails  are  hoisted  to  the  tops  of  the  stumpy  masts 
of  the  fishermen's  boats.  Barcelona  with  its  fine 
harbor  nestling  under  the  towering  slopes  of 
Montjuic  has  been  a  trading  city  since  most  an 
cient  times.  In  the  middle  ages  the  fleets  of  its 
stocky  merchants  were  the  economic  scaffolding 
which  underlay  the  pomp  and  heraldry  of  the 
great  sea  kingdom  of  the  Aragonese.  To  this 
day  you  can  find  on  old  buildings  the  arms  of  the 

[159] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

kings  of  Aragon  and  the  counts  of  Barcelona  in 
Mallorca  and  Manorca  and  Ibiza  and  Sardinia 
and  Sicily  and  Naples.  It  follows  that  when 
Catalonia  begins  to  reemerge  as  a  nucleus  of 
national  consciousness  after  nearly  four  centur 
ies  of  subjection  to  Castile,  poets  speaking  Cata 
lan,  writing  Catalan,  shall  be  poets  of  the  moun 
tains  and  of  the  sea. 

Yet  this  time  the  motor  force  is  not  the  sail 
ing  of  white  argosies  towards  the  east.  It  is  tex 
tile  mills,  stable,  motionless,  drawing  about  them 
muddled  populations,  raw  towns,  fattening  to 
new  arrogance  the  descendants  of  those  stubborn 
burghers  who  gave  the  kings  of  Aragon  and  of 
Castile  such  vexing  moments.  (There's  a  story 
of  one  king  who  was  so  chagrined  by  the  tight- 
pursed  contrariness  of  the  Cortes  of  Barcelona 
that  he  died  of  a  broken  heart  in  full  parliament 
assembled.)  This  growth  of  industry  during 
the  last  century,  coupled  with  the  reawakening 
of  the  whole  Mediterranean,  took  form  politi 
cally  in  the  Catalan  movement  for  secession  from 
Spain,  and  in  literature  in  the  resurrection  of 
Catalan  thought  and  Catalan  language. 

[160] 


A  Catalan  Poet 

Naturally  the  first  generation  was  not  inter 
ested  in  the  manufactures  that  were  the  dynamo 
that  generated  the  ferment  of  their  lives.  They 
had  first  to  state  the  emotions  of  the  mountains 
and  the  sea  and  of  ancient  heroic  stories  that  had 
been  bottled  up  in  their  race  during  centuries 
of  inexpressiveness.  For  another  generation  per 
haps  the  symbols  will  be  the  cluck  of  oiled  cogs, 
the  whirring  of  looms,  the  dragon  forms  of  smoke 
spewed  out  of  tall  chimneys,  and  the  substance 
will  be  the  painful  struggle  for  freedom,  for  sun 
nier,  richer  life  of  the  huddled  mobs  of  the  slaves 
of  the  machines.  For  the  first  men  conscious  of 
their  status  as  Catalans  the  striving  was  to  make 
permanent  their  individual  lives  in  terms  of  polit 
ical  liberty,  of  the  mist-capped  mountains  and  the 
changing  sea. 

Of  this  first  generation  was  Juan  Maragall 
who  died  in  1912,  five  years  after  the  shooting  of 
Ferrer,  after  a  life  spent  almost  entirely  in  Bar 
celona  writing  for  newspapers, — as  far  as  one 
can  gather,  a  completely  peaceful  well-married 
existence,  punctuated  by  a  certain  amount  of 
political  agitation  in  the  cause  of  the  independ- 

[161] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

ence  of  Catalonia,  the  life  of  a  placid  and  recog 
nized  literary  figure;  "un  mctitre"  the  French 
would  have  called  him. 

Perhaps  six  centuries  before,  in  Palma  de 
Mallorca,  a  young  nobleman,  a  poet,  a  skilled 
player  on  the  lute  had  stood  tiptoe  for  attain 
ment  before  the  high-born  and  very  stately  lady 
he  had  courted  through  many  moonlight  nights, 
when  her  eye  had  chilled  his  quivering  love  sud 
denly  and  she  had  pulled  open  her  bodice  with 
both  hands  and  shown  him  her  breasts,  one  white 
and  firm  and  the  other  swollen  black  and  purple 
with  cancer.  The  horror  of  the  sight  of  such 
beauty  rotting  away  before  his  eyes  had  turned 
all  his  passion  inward  and  would  have  made  him 
a  saint  had  his  ideas  been  more  orthodox;  as  it 
was  the  Blessed  Ramon  Lull  lived  to  write  many 
mystical  works  in  Catalan  and  Latin,  in  which 
he  sought  the  love  of  God  in  the  love  of  Earth 
after  the  manner  of  the  sufi  of  Persia.  Event 
ually  he  attained  bloody  martyrdom  arguing  with 
the  sages  in  some  North  African  town.  Some 
how  the  spirit  of  the  tortured  thirteenth-century 
mystic  was  born  again  in  the  calm  Barcelona 

[162] 


A  Catalan  Poet 

journalist,  whose  life  was  untroubled  by  the  im 
pact  of  events  as  could  only  be  a  life  comprising 
the  last  half  of  the  nineteenth  century.  In  Mar- 
agall's  writings  modulated  in  the  lovely  homely 
language  of  the  peasants  and  fishermen  of  Cat 
alonia,  there  flames  again  the  passionate  meta 
phor  of  Lull. 

Here  is  a  rough  translation  of  one  of  his  best 
known  poems: 

At  sunset  time 

drinking  at  the  spring's  edge 
I  drank  down  the  secrets 
of  mysterious  earth. 

Deep  in  the  runnel 

I  saw  the  stainless  water 

born  out  of  darkness 

for  the  delight  of  my  mouth, 

and  it  poured  into  my  throat 
and  with  its  clear  spurting 
there  filled  me  entirely 
mellowness  of  wisdom. 

When  I  stood  straight  and  looked, 
mountains  and  woods  and  meadows 
seemed  to  me  otherwise, 
everything  altered. 
[163] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

Above  the  great  sunset 

there  already  shone  through  the  glowing 

carmine  contours   of  the  clouds 

the  white  sliver  of  the  new  moon. 

It  was  a  world  in  flower 
and  the  soul  of  it  was  I. 

I  the  fragrant  soul  of  the  meadows 

that  expands   at  flower-time  and  reaping-time. 

I  the  peaceful  soul  of  the  herds 

that  tinkle  half -hidden  by  the  tall  grass. 

I  the  soul  of  the  forest  that  sways  in  waves 
like  the  sea,  and  has  as  far  horizons. 

And  also  I  was  the  soul  of  the  willow  tree 
that  gives  every  spring  its  shade. 

I  the  sheer  soul  of  the  cliffs 

where  the  mist  creeps  up  and  scatters. 

And  the  unquiet  soul  of  the  stream 
that  shrieks  in  shining  waterfalls. 

I  was  the  blue  soul  of  the  pond 

that  looks  with  strange  eyes  on  the  wanderer. 

I  the  soul  of  the  all-moving  wind 
and  the  humble  soul  of  opening  flowers. 

[164] 


A  Catalan  Poet 

I  was  the  height  of  the  high  peaks  .  .  . 

The  clouds  caressed  me  with  great  gestures 
and  the  wide  love  of  misty  spaces 
clove  to  me,  placid. 

I  felt  the  delight  fulness  of  springs 
born  in  my  flanks,  gifts  of  the  glaciers; 
and  in  the  ample  quietude  of  horizons 
I  felt  the  reposeful  sleep  of  storms. 

And  when  the  sky  opened  about  me 
and  the  sun  laughed  on  my  green  planes 
people,  far  off,  stood  still  all  day 
staring  at  my  sovereign  beauty. 

But   I,   full  of  the  lust 

that  makes  furious  the  sea  and  mountains 

lifted  myself  up  strongly  through  the  sky 

lifted   the   diversity   of   my  flanks    and    entrails  .  .  . 

At  sunset  time 
drinking  at  the  spring's  edge 
I  drank  down  the  secrets 
of  mysterious  earth. 

The  sea  and  mountains,  mist  and  cattle  and 
yellow  broom-flowers,  and  fishing  boats  with 
lateen  sails  like  dark  wings  against  the  sunrise 

[165] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

towards  Mallorca:  delight  of  the  nose  and  the 
eyes  and  the  ears  in  all  living  perceptions  until 
the  poison  of  other-worldliness  wells  up  sud 
denly  in  him  and  he  is  a  Christian  and  a  mystic 
full  of  echoes  of  old  soul-torturing.  In  Mara- 
galFs  most  expressive  work,  a  sequence  of  poems 
called  El  Comte  Arnau,  all  this  is  synthesized. 
These  are  from  the  climax. 

All  the  voices   of  the  earth 
acclaim  count  Arnold 
because  from  the  dark  trial 
he  has  come  back  triumphant. 

"Son  of  the  earth,  son  of  the  earth, 
count  Arnold, 
now  ask,  now  ask 
what  cannot  you  do?" 

"Live,  live,  live  forever, 
I  would  never  die: 
to  be  like  a  wheel  revolving; 
to  live  with  wine  and  a  sword.** 

"Wheels  roll,  roll, 
but  they  count  the  years." 

"Then  I  would  be  a  rock 
immobile  to  suns  or  storms." 
[166] 


A  Catalan  Poet 

"Rock  lives  without  life 
forever  impenetrable." 

"Then  the  ever-moving  sea 
that  opens  a  path  for  all  things." 

"The  sea  is  alone,  alone, 
you  go  accompanied." 

"Then  be  the  air  when  it  flames 
in  the  light  of  the  deathless  sun.** 

"But  air  and  sun  are  loveless, 
ignorant   of  eternity." 

"Then  to  be  man  more  than  man 
to  be  earth  palpitant." 

"You  shall  be  wheel  and  rock, 
you  shall  be  the  mist-veiled  sea 
you  shall  be  the  air  in  flame, 
you  shall  be  the  whirling  stars, 
you  shall  be  man  more  than  man 
for  you  have  the  will  for  it. 
You  shall  run  the  plains  and  hills, 
all  the  earth  that  is  so  wide, 
mounted  on  a  horse  of  flame 
you  shall  be  tireless,  terrible 
as  the  tramp  of  the  storms 
[167] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

All   the   voices    of   earth 
will  cry  out  whirling  about  you. 
They  will  call  you  spirit  in  torment 
call   you   forever   damned." 

Night.     All  the  beauty  of  Adalaisa 
asleep  at  the  feet  of  naked  Christ. 
Arnold  goes  pacing  a  dark  path; 
there  is   silence  among  the  mountains; 
in  front  of  him  the  rustling  lisp  of  a  river, 
a  pool  .  .  .  Then  it  is  lost  and  soundless. 
Arnold  stands  under  the  sheer  portal. 

He  goes  searching  the  cells  for  Adalaisa 
and  sees  her  sleeping,  beautiful,  prone 
at  the  feet  of  the  naked  Christ,  without  veil 
without  kerchief,  without  cloak,  gestureless, 
without  any  defense,  there,  sleeping  .  .  . 

She  had  a  great  head  of  turbulent  hair. 

"How  like  fine  silk  your  hair,  Adalaisa," 
thinks  Arnold.     But  he  looks  at  her  silently. 
She  sleeps,  she  sleeps  and  little  by  little 
a  flush  spreads  over  all  her  face 
as  if  a  dream  had  crept  through  her  gently 
until  she  laughs  aloud  very  softly 
with  a  tremulous  flutter  of  the  lips. 

"What  amorous  lips,  Adalaisa," 
thinks  Arnold.     But  he  looks  at  her  silently. 
[168] 


A  Catalan  Poet 

A  great  sigh  swells  through  her,  sleeping, 
like  a  seawave,  and  fades  to  stillness. 

"What  sighs  swell  in  your  breast,  Adalaisa," 
thinks  Arnold.     But  he  stares  at  her  silently. 

But  when  she  opens  her  eyes  he,  awake, 
tingling,  carries  her  off  in  his  arms. 

When  they  burst  out  into  the  open  fields 
it  is  day. 

But  the  fear  of  life  gushes  suddenly  to  muddy 
the  clear  wellspring  of  sensation,  and  the  poet, 
beaten  to  his  knees,  writes: 

And  when  the  terror-haunted  moment  comes 
to  close  these  earthly  eyes  of  mine, 
open  for  me,  Lord,  other  greater  eyes 
to  look  upon  the  immensity  of  your  face. 

But  before  that  moment  comes,  through  the  me 
dium  of  an  extraordinarily  terse  and  unspoiled 
language,  a  language  that  has  not  lost  its  earthy 
freshness  by  mauling  and  softening  at  the  hands 
of  literary  generations,  what  a  lilting  crystal- 
bright  vision  of  things.  It  is  as  if  the  air  of  the 
Mediterranean  itself,  thin,  brilliant,  had  been 

[169] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

hammered  into  cadences.  The  verse  is  leaping 
and  free,  full  of  echoes  and  refrains.  The  images 
are  sudden  and  unlabored  like  the  images  in  the 
Greek  anthology:  a  hermit  released  from  Nebu 
chadnezzar's  spell  gets  to  his  feet  "like  a  bear 
standing  upright";  fishing  boats  being  shoved  off 
the  beach  slide  into  the  sea  one  by  one  "like  vil 
lage  girls  joining  a  dance";  on  a  rough  day  the 
smacks  with  reefed  sails  "skip  like  goats  at  the 
harbor  entrance."  There  are  phrases  like  "the 
great  asleepness  of  the  mountains";  "a  long  sigh 
like  a  seawave  through  her  sleep";  "my  speech 
of  her  is  like  a  flight  of  birds  that  lead  your 
glance  into  intense  blue  sky" ;  "the  disquieting  un 
quiet  sea."  Perhaps  it  is  that  the  eyes  are  sharp 
ened  by  the  yearning  to  stare  through  the  brilliant 
changing  forms  of  things  into  some  intenser  be 
yond.  Perhaps  it  takes  a  hot  intoxicating 
draught  of  divinity  to  melt  into  such  white  fire 
the  various  colors  of  the  senses.  Perhaps  earthly 
joy  is  intenser  for  the  beckoning  flames  of  hell. 
The  daily  life,  too,  to  which  Maragall  aspires 
seems  strangely  out  of  another  age.  That  came 

[170] 


A  Catalan  Poet 

home  to  me  most  strongly  once,  talking  to  a  Cat 
alan  after  a  mountain  scramble  in  the  eastern 
end  of  Mallorca.  We  sat  looking  at  the  sea  that 
was  violet  with  sunset,  where  the  sails  of  the 
homecoming  fishing  boats  were  the  wan  yellow 
of  primroses.  Behind  us  the  hills  were  sharp 
pyrites  blue.  From  a  window  in  the  adobe  hut 
at  one  side  of  us  came  a  smell  of  sizzling  olive 
oil  and  tomatoes  and  peppers  and  the  muffled 
sound  of  eggs  being  beaten.  We  were  footsore, 
hungry,  and  we  talked  about  women  and  love. 
And  after  all  it  was  marriage  that  counted,  he 
told  me  at  last,  women's  bodies  and  souls  and  the 
love  of  them  were  all  very  well,  but  it  was  the 
ordered  life  of  a  family,  children,  that  counted; 
the  family  was  the  immortal  chain  on  which  lives 
were  strung;  and  he  recited  this  quatrain,  saying, 
in  that  proud  awefilled  tone  with  which  Latins 
speak  of  creative  achievement,  "By  our  greatest 
poet,  Juan  Maragall" : 

Canta  esposa,  fila  i  canta 
que  el  pati  em  faras   suau 
Quan  Pesposa  canta  i  fila 
el  casal  s'adorm  en  pau, 
[171] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

It  was  hard  explaining  how  all  our  desires  lay 
towards  the  completer  and  completer  affirming  of 
the  individual,  that  we  in  Anglo-Saxon  countries 
felt  that  the  family  was  dead  as  a  social  unit, 
that  new  cohesions  were  in  the  making. 

"I  want  my  liberty,"  he  broke  in,  "as  much  as 
— as  Byron  did,  liberty  of  thought  and  action." 
He  was  silent  a  moment;  then  he  said  simply, 
"But  I  want  a  wife  and  children  and  a  family, 
mine,  mine." 

Then  the  girl  who  was  cooking  leaned  out  of 
the  window  to  tell  us  in  soft  Mallorquin  that  sup 
per  was  ready.  She  had  a  full  brown  face  flushed 
on  the  cheekbones  and  given  triangular  shape 
like  an  El  Greco  madonna's  face  by  the  bright 
blue  handkerchief  knotted  under  the  chin.  Her 
breasts  hung  out  from  her  body,  solid  like  a  Vic 
tory's  under  the  sleek  grey  shawl  as  she  leaned 
from  the  window.  In  her  eyes  that  were  sea-grey 
there  was  an  unimaginable  calm.  I  thought  of 
Penelope  sitting  beside  her  loom  in  a  smoky- 
raftered  hall,  grey  eyes  looking  out  on  a  sail- 
less  sea.  And  for  a  moment  I  understood  the 
Catalan's  phrase:  the  family  was  the  chain  on 

[172]  ' 


A  Catalan  Poet 

which  lives  were  strung,  and  all  of  Maragall's 
lyricizing  of  wifehood, 

When  the  wife  sits  singing  as  she  spins 
all  the  house  can  sleep  in  peace. 

From  the  fishermen's  huts  down  the  beach 
came  an  intense  blue  smoke  of  fires;  above  the 
soft  rustle  of  the  swell  among  the  boats  came  the 
chatter  of  many  sleepy  voices,  like  the  sound  of 
sparrows  in  a  city  park  at  dusk.  The  day  dis 
solved  slowly  in  utter  timelessness.  And  when 
the  last  fishing  boat  came  out  of  the  dark  sea,  the 
tall  slanting  sail  folding  suddenly  as  the  wings 
of  a  sea-gull  alighting,  the  red-brown  face  of 
the  man  in  the  bow  was  the  face  of  returning 
Odysseus.  It  was  not  the  continuity  of  men's 
lives  I  felt,  but  their  oneness.  On  that  beach, 
beside  that  sea,  there  was  no  time. 

When  we  were  eating  in  the  whitewashed  room 
by  the  light  of  three  brass  olive  oil  lamps,  I  found 
that  my  argument  had  suddenly  crumbled.  What 
could  I,  who  had  come  out  of  ragged  and  bar 
barous  outlands,  tell  of  the  art  of  living  to  a  man 
who  had  taught  me  both  system  and  revolt?  So 

[173] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

am  I,  to  whom  the  connubial  lyrics  of  Patmore 
and  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox  have  always  seemed 
inexpressible  soiling  of  possible  loveliness,  forced 
to  bow  before  the  rich  cadences  with  which  Juan 
Maragall,  Catalan,  poet  of  the  Mediterranean, 
celebrates  the  familia. 

And  in  Maragall's  work  it  is  always  the  Medb 
terranean  that  one  feels,  the  Mediterranean  and 
the  men  who  sailed  on  it  in  black  ships  with 
bright  pointed  sails.  Just  as  in  Homer  and  Eu 
ripides  and  Pindar  and  Theocritus  and  in  that 
tantalizing  kaleidoscope,  the  Anthology,  beyond 
the  grammar  and  the  footnotes  and  the  desolation 
of  German  texts  there  is  always  the  rhythm  of 
sea  waves  and  the  smell  of  well-caulked  ships 
drawn  up  on  dazzling  beaches,  so  in  Maragall, 
beyond  the  graceful  well-kept  literary  existence, 
beyond  wife  and  children  and  pompous  demon 
strations  in  the  cause  of  abstract  freedom,  there 
is  the  sea  lashing  the  rocky  shins  of  the  Pyrenees, 
— actual,  dangerous,  wet. 

In  this  day  when  we  Americans  are  plunder 
ing  the  earth  far  and  near  for  flowers  and  seeds 
and  ferments  of  literature  in  the  hope,  perhaps 

[174] 


A  Catalan  Poet 

vain,  of  fallowing  our  thin  soil  with  manure  rich 
and  diverse  and  promiscuous  so  that  the  some 
what  sickly  plants  of  our  own  culture  may  burst 
sappy  and  green  through  the  steel  and  cement 
and  inhibitions  of  our  lives,  we  should  not  for 
get  that  northwest  corner  of  the  Mediterranean 
where  the  Langue  d'Oc  is  as  terse  and  salty  as 
it  was  in  the  days  of  Pierre  Vidal,  whose  rhythms 
of  life,  intrinsically  Mediterranean,  are  finding 
new  permanence — poetry  richly  ordered  and 
lucid. 

To  the  Catalans  of  the  last  fifty  years  has  fal 
len  the  heritage  of  the  oar  which  the  cunning 
sailor  Odysseus  dedicated  to  the  Sea,  the  earth- 
shaker,  on  his  last  voyage.  And  the  first  of 
them  is  Maragall. 


[175] 


XIII:  Talk  by  the  Road 

ON  the  top  step  Telemachus  found  a  man 
sitting  with  his  head  in  his  hands  moaning 
ff\Ay  de  ml!"  over  and  over  again. 

"I  beg  pardon,"  he  said  stiffly,  trying  to  slip 

by. 

"Did  you  see  the  function  this  evening,  sir?" 
asked  the  man  looking  up  at  Telemachus  with 
tears  streaming  from  his  eyes.  He  had  a  yellow 
face  with  lean  blue  chin  and  jowls  shaven  close 
and  a  little  waxed  moustache  that  had  lost  all  its 
swagger  for  the  moment  as  he  had  the  ends  of 
it  in  his  mouth. 

"What  function?" 

"In  the  theatre  ...  I  am  an  artist,  an  actor." 
He  got  to  his  feet  and  tried  to  twirl  his  ragged 
moustaches  back  into  shape.  Then  he  stuck  out 
his  chest,  straightened  his  waistcoat  so  that  the 
large  watchchain  clinked,  and  invited  Telema 
chus  to  have  a  cup  of  coffee  with  him. 

[176] 


Talk  by  the  Road 

They  sat  at  the  black  oak  table  in  front  of  the 
fire.  The  actor  told  how  there  had  been  only 
twelve  people  at  his  show.  How  was  he  to  be 
expected  to  make  his  living  if  only  twelve  people 
came  to  see  him?  And  the  night  before  Carni 
val,  too,  when  they  usually  got  such  a  crowd. 
He'd  learned  a  new  song  especially  for  the  oc 
casion,  too  good,  too  artistic  for  these  pigs  of 
provincials. 

"Here  in  Spain  the  stage  is  ruined,  ruined!" 
he  cried  out  finally. 

"How  ruined?"  asked  Telemachus. 

"The  Zarzuela  is  dead.  The  days  of  the  great 
writers  of  zarzuela  have  gone  never  to  return. 
O  the  music,  the  lightness,  the  jollity  of  the  zar- 
zuelas  of  my  father's  time!  My  father  was  a 
great  singer,  a  tenor  whose  voice  was  an  enchant 
ment  ...  I  know  the  princely  life  of  a  great 
singer  of  zarzuela  .  .  .  When  a  small  boy  I 
lived  it  ...  And  now  look  at  me!" 

Telemachus  thought  how  strangely  out  of 
place  was  the  actor's  aneemic  wasplike  figure  in 
this  huge  kitchen  where  everything  was  dark, 
strong-smelling,  massive.  Black  beams  with  here 

[177] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

and  there  a  trace  of  red  daub  on  them  held  up  the 
ceiling  and  bristled  with  square  iron  spikes  from 
which  hung  hams  and  sausages  and  white  strands 
of  garlic.  The  table  at  which  they  sat  was  an 
oak  slab,  black  from  smoke  and  generations  of 
spillings,  firmly  straddled  on  thick  trestles. 
Over  the  fire  hung  a  copper  pot,  sooty,  with  a 
glitter  of  grease  on  it  where  the  soup  had  boiled 
over.  When  one  leaned  to  put  a  bundle  of 
sticks  on  the  fire  one  could  see  up  the  chimney 
an  oblong  patch  of  blackness  spangled  with  stars. 
On  the  edge  of  the  hearth  was  the  great  hunched 
figure  of  the  padron,  half  asleep,  a  silk  handker 
chief  round  his  head,  watching  the  coif ee-pot. 

"It  was  an  elegant  life,  full  of  voyages,"  went 
on  the  actor.  "South  America,  Naples,  Sicily, 
and  all  over  Spain.  There  were  formal  dinners, 
receptions,  ceremonial  dress  .  .  .  Ladies  of  high 
society  came  to  congratulate  us  ...  I  played 
all  the  child  roles  .  .  .  When  I  was  fourteen  a 
duchess  fell  in  love  with  me.  And  now,  look  at 
me,  ragged,  dying  of  hunger — not  even  able  to 
fill  a  theatre  in  this  hog  of  a  village.  In  Spain 
they  have  lost  all  love  of  the  art.  All  they  want 

[178] 


Talk  by  the  Road 

is  foreign  importations,  Viennese  musical  come 
dies,  smutty  farces  from  Paris  .  .  ." 

"With  cognac  or  rum?"  the  padron  roared  out 
suddenly  in  his  deep  voice,  swinging  the  coffee 
pot  up  out  of  the  fire. 

"Cognac,"  said  the  actor.  "What  rotten  cof 
fee!"  He  gave  little  petulant  sniffs  as  he 
poured  sugar  into  his  glass. 

The  wail  of  a  baby  rose  up  suddenly  out  of 
the  dark  end  of  the  kitchen. 

The  actor  took  two  handfuls  of  his  hair  and 
yanked  at  them. 

"Ay  my  nerves!"  he  shrieked.  The  baby 
wailed  louder  in  spasm  after  spasm  of  yelling. 
The  actor  jumped  to  his  feet,  "j Dolores, 
Dolores,  ven  oca!" 

After  he  had  called  several  times  a  girl  came 
into  the  room  padding  softly  on  bare  feet  and 
stood  before  him  tottering  sleepily  in  the  fire 
light.  Her  heavy  lids  hung  over  her  eyes.  A 
strand  of  black  hair  curled  round  her  full  throat 
and  spread  raggedly  over  her  breasts.  She  had 
pulled  a  blanket  over  her  shoulders  but  through 
a  rent  in  her  coarse  nightgown  the  fire  threw 

[179] 


Roslnante  to  the  Road  Again 

a  patch  of  red  glow  curved  like  a  rose  petal  about 
one  brown  thigh. 

" iQue  desvergonzafa!  .  .  .  How  shameless!" 
muttered  the  padron. 

The  actor  was  scolding  her  in  a  shrill  endless 
whine.  The  girl  stood  still  without  answering, 
her  teeth  clenched  to  keep  them  from  chattering. 
Then  she  turned  without  a  word  and  brought 
the  baby  from  the  packing  box  in  which  he  lay 
at  the  end  of  the  room,  and  drawing  the  blanket 
about  both  her  and  the  child  crouched  on  her 
heels  very  close  to  the  flame  with  her  bare  feet 
in  the  ashes.  When  the  crying  had  ceased  she 
turned  to  the  actor  with  a  full-lipped  smile  and 
said,  "There's  nothing  the  matter  with  him,  Paco. 
He's  not  even  hungry.  You  woke  him  up,  the 
poor  little  angel,  talking  so  loud." 

She  got  to  her  feet  again,  and  with  slow  un 
speakable  dignity  walked  back  and  forth  across 
the  end  of  the  room  with  the  child  at  her  breast. 
Each  time  she  turned  she  swung  the  trailing 
blanket  round  with  a  sudden  twist  of  her  body 
from  the  hips. 

Telemachus  watched  her  furtively,  sniffing  the 
[180] 


Talk  by  the  Road 

hot  aroma  of  coffee  and  cognac  from  his  glass, 
and  whenever  she  turned  the  muscles  of  his  body 
drew  into  tight  knots  from  joy. 

ffEs  buena  chica.  .  .  .  She's  a  nice  kid,  from 
Malaga.  I  picked  her  up  there.  A  little  stupid. 
.  .  .  But  these  days.  .  ."  the  actor  was  saying 
with  much  shrugging  of  the  shoulders.  "She 
dances  well,  but  the  public  doesn't  like  her.  No 
tiene  cam  de  parisiana.  She  hasn't  the  Parisian 
air.  .  .  .  But  these  days,  vamos,  one  can't  be  too 
fastidious.  This  taste  for  French  plays,  French 
women,  French  cuisine,  it's  ruined  the  Spanish 
theatre." 

The  fire  flared  crackling.  Telemachus  sat  sip 
ping  his  coffee  waiting  for  the  unbearable  delight 
of  the  swing  of  the  girl's  body  as  she  turned 
to  pace  back  towards  him  across  the  room. 


[181] 


XIV:  Benaventes  Madrid 

ALL  the  gravel  paths  of  the  Plaza  Santa 
Ana  were  encumbered  with  wicker  chairs. 
At  one  corner  seven  blind  musicians  all  in  a  row, 
with  violins,  a  cello,  guitars  and  a  mournful  cor 
net,  toodled  and  wheezed  and  twiddled  through 
the  "Blue  Danube."  At  another  a  crumpled  old 
man,  with  a  monkey  dressed  in  red  silk  drawers 
on  his  shoulder,  ground  out  ffla  Paloma"  from  a 
hurdygurdy.  In  the  middle  of  the  green  plot  a 
fountain  sparkled  in  the  yellow  light  that 
streamed  horizontally  from  the  cafes  fuming 
with  tobacco  smoke  on  two  sides  of  the  square, 
and  ragged  guttersnipes  dipped  their  legs  in 
the  slimy  basin  round  about  it,  splashing  one 
another,  railing  like  little  colts  in  the  grass1. 
From  the  cafes  and  the  wicker  chairs  and  tables, 
clink  of  glasses  and  dominoes,  patter  of  voices, 
scuttle  of  waiters  with  laden  trays,  shouts  of  men 
selling  shrimps,  prawns,  fried  potatoes,  water- 

[182] 


Benaventes  Madrid 

melon,  nuts  in  little  cornucopias  of  red,  green, 
or  yellow  paper.  Light  gleamed  on  the  buff- 
colored  disk  of  a  table  in  front  of  me,  on  the 
rims  of  two  beer-mugs,  in  the  eyes  of  a  bearded 
man  with  an  aquiline  nose  very  slender  at  the 
bridge  who  leaned  towards  me  talking  in  a  deep 
even  voice,  telling  me  in  swift  lisping  Castilian 
stories  of  Madrid.  First  of  the  Madrid  of  Felipe 
Cuarto :  corridas  in  the  Plaza  Mayor,  auto  da  je, 
pictures  by  Velasquez  on  view  under  the  arcade 
where  now  there  is  a  doughnut  and  coffee  shop, 
pompous  coaches  painted  vermilion,  cobalt, 
gilded,  stuffed  with  ladies  in  vast  bulge  of  dam 
ask  and  brocade,  plumed  cavaliers,  pert  ogling 
pages,  lurching  and  swaying  through  the  foot- 
deep  stinking  mud  of  the  streets ;  plays  of  Cald- 
eron  and  Lope  presented  in  gardens  tinkling  with 
jewels  and  sword-chains  where  ladies  of  the  court 
flirted  behind  ostrich  fans  with  stiff  lean-faced 
lovers.  Then  Goya's  Madrid :  riots  in  the  Puerta 
del  Sol,  majas  leaning  from  balconies,  the  fair 
of  San  Isidro  by  the  river,  scuttling  of  ragged 
guerrilla  bands,  brigands  and  patriots ;  tramp  of 
the  stiff  necked  grenadiers  of  Napoleon ;  pompous 

[183] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

little  men  in  short-tailed  wigs  dying  the  dos  de 
Mayo  with  phrases  from  Mirabeau  on  their  lips 
under  the  brick  arch  of  the  arsenal ;  frantic  car 
nivals  of  the  Burial  of  the  Sardine;  naked  backs 
of  flagellants  dripping  blood,  lovers  hiding  under 
the  hoopskirts  of  the  queen.  Then  the  romantic 
Madrid  of  the  thirties,  Larra,  Becquer,  Espron- 
ceda,  Byronic  gestures,  vigils  in  graveyards, 
duels,  struttings  among  the  box-alleys  of  the  Re- 
tiro,  pale  young  men  in  white  stocks  shooting 
themselves  in  attics  along  the  Calle  Mayor. 
"And  now,"  the  voice  became  suddenly  gruff  with 
anger,  "look  at  Madrid.  They  closed  the  Cafe 
Suizo,  they  are  building  a  subway,  the  Castellana 
looks  more  like  the  Champs  Elysees  every  day 
.  .  .  It's  only  on  the  stage  that  you  get  any  rem 
nant  of  the  real  Madrid.  Benavente  is  the  last 
madrileno.  Tiene  el  sentido  de  lo  castizo.  He 
has  the  sense  of  the  .  .  ."  all  the  end  of  the 
evening  went  to  the  discussion  of  the  meaning  of 
the  famous  word  "castizo" 

The  very  existence  of  such  a  word  in  a  lan 
guage  argues  an  acute  sense  of  style,  of  the  man 
ner  of  doing  things.  Like  all  words  of  real  im- 

[184] 


Benaventes  Madrid 

port  its  meaning  is  a  gamut,  a  section  of  a  spect 
rum  rather  than  something  fixed  and  irrevocable. 
The  first  implication  seems  to  be  "according  to 
Hoyle,"  following  tradition:  a  neatly  turned 
phrase,  an  essentially  Castilian  cadence,  is 
castizo;  a  piece  of  pastry  or  a  poem  in  the  old 
tradition  are  castizo,  or  a  compliment  daintily 
turned,  or  a  cloak  of  the  proper  fullness  with  the 
proper  red  velvet-bordered  lining  gracefully 
flung  about  the  ears  outside  of  a  cafe.  Lo  castizo 
is  the  essence  of  the  local,  of  the  regional,  the  last 
stronghold  of  Castilian  arrogance,  refers  not  to 
the  empty  shell  of  traditional  observances  but 
to  the  very  core  and  gesture  of  them.  Ultimately 
lo  castizo  means  all  that  is  salty,  savourous  of  the 
red  and  yellow  hills  and  the  bare  plains  and  the 
deep  arroyos  and  the  dust-colored  towns  full  of 
palaces  and  belfries,  and  the  beggars  in  snuff- 
colored  cloaks  and  the  mule-drivers  with  blank 
ets  over  their  shoulders,  and  the  discursive  lean- 
faced  gentlemen  grouped  about  tables  at  cafes 
and  casinos,  and  the  stout  dowagers  with  mantil 
las  over  their  gleaming  black  hair  walking  to 
church  in  the  morning  with  missals  clasped  in  fat 

[185] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

hands,  all  that  is  acutely  indigenous,  Iberian,  in 
the  life  of  Castile. 

In  the  flood  of  industrialism  that  for  the  last 
twenty  years  has  swelled  to  obliterate  landmarks, 
to  bring  all  the  world  to  the  same  level  of  nickel- 
plated  dullness,  the  theatre  in  Madrid  has  been 
the  refuge  of  lo  castizo.  It  has  been  a  theatre  of 
manners  and  local  types  and  customs,  of  observa 
tion  and  natural  history,  where  a  rather  special 
ized  well-trained  audience  accustomed  to  satire 
as  the  tone  of  daily  conversation  was  tickled  by 
any  portrayal  of  its  quips  and  cranks.  A  tradi 
tion  of  character-acting  grew  up  nearer  that  of 
the  Yiddish  theatre  than  of  any  other  stage  we 
know  in  America.  Benavente  and  the  brothers 
Quintero  have  been  the  playwrights  who  most 
typified  the  school  that  has  been  in  vogue  since 
the  going  out  of  the  drame  passionel  style  of 
Echegaray.  At  present  Benavente  as  director  of 
the  Teatro  National  is  unquestionably  the  lead 
ing  figure.  Therefore  it  is  very  fitting  that  Bena 
vente  should  be  in  life  and  works  of  all  madri- 
lenos  the  most  castizo. 

Later,  as  we  sat  drinking  milk  in  la  Gran j  a 
[186] 


Eenaventes  Madrid 

after  a  couple  of  hours  of  a  shabby  third-genera 
tion  Viennese  musical  show  at  the  Apollo,  my 
friend  discoursed  to  me  of  the  manner  of  life 
of  the  madrileno  in  general  and  of  Don  Jacinto 
Benavente  in  particular.  Round  eleven  or  twelve 
one  got  up,  took  a  cup  of  thick  chocolate,  strolled 
on  the  Castellana  under  the  chestnut  trees  or 
looked  in  at  one's  office  in  the  theatre.  At  two 
one  lunched.  At  three  or  so  one  sat  a  while  drink 
ing  coffee  or  anis  in  the  Gato  Negro,  where  the 
waiters  have  the  air  of  cabinet  ministers  and 
listen  to  every  word  of  the  rather  languid  dis 
cussions  on  art  and  letters  that  while  away  the 
afternoon  hours.  Then  as  it  got  towards  five 
one  drifted  to  a  matinee,  if  there  chanced  to  be  a 
new  play  opening,  or  to  tea  somewhere  out  in 
the  new  Frenchified  Barrio  de  Salamanca.  Din 
ner  came  along  round  nine;  from  there  one  went 
straight  to  the  theatre  to  see  that  all  went  well 
with  the  evening  performance.  At  one  the  day 
culminated  in  a  famous  tertulia  at  the  Cafe  de 
Lisboa,  where  all  the  world  met  and  argued  and 
quarreled  and  listened  to  disquisitions  and  epi- 

[187] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

grams  at  tables  stacked  with  coffee  glasses  amid 
spiral  reek  of  cigarette  smoke. 

"But  when  were  the  plays  written?"  I  asked. 

My  friend  laughed.  "Oh  between  semicolons," 
he  said,  "and  en  route,  and  in  bed,  and  while  be 
ing  shaved.  Here  in  Madrid  you  write  a  comedy 
between  biscuits  at  breakfast  .  .  .  And  now 
that  the  Metro's  open,  it's  a  great  help.  I  know 
a  young  poet  who  tossed  off  a  five-act  tragedy, 
sex-psychology  and  all,  between  the  Puerta  del 
Sol  and  Cuatro  Caminos!" 

"But  Madrid's  being  spoiled*"  he  went  on 
sadly,  "at  least  from  the  point  of  view  of  lo 
castizo.  In  the  last  generation  all  one  saw  of 
daylight  were  sunset  and  dawn,  people  used  to 
go  out  to  fight  duels  where  the  Residencia  de 
Estudiantes  is  now,  and  they  had  real  tertulias, 
tertulias  where  conversation  swaggered  and  par 
ried  and  lunged,  sparing  nothing,  laughing  at 
everything,  for  all  the  world  like  our  unique 
Spanish  hero,  Don  Juan  Tenorio. 

'Yo  a  las  cabanas  baje, 
yo  a  los  palacios  subi, 
y  los  claustros  escale, 
[188] 


Benaventes  Madrid 

y  en  todas  partes  deje 
memorias  amargas  de  mi.* 

Talk  ranged  from  peasant  huts  to  the  palaces  of 
Carlist  duchesses,  and  God  knows  the  crows  and 
the  cloisters  weren't  let  off  scot  free.  And  like 
good  old  absurd  Tenorio  they  didn't  care  if 
laughter  did  leave  bitter  memories,  and  were 
willing  to  wait  till  their  deathbeds  to  reconcile 
themselves  with  heaven  and  solemnity.  But  our 
generation,  they  all  went  solemn  in  their  cradles 
.  .  .  Except  for  the  theatre  people,  always  ex 
cept  for  the  theatre  people !  We  of  the  theatres 
will  be  castizo  to  the  death." 

As  we  left  the  cafe,  I  to  go  home  to  bed,  my 
friend  to  go  on  to  another  tertulia,  he  stood  for  a 
moment  looking  back  among  the  tables  and 
glasses. 

"What  the  Agora  was  to  the  Athenians,"  he 
said,  and  finished  the  sentence  with  an  expressive 
wave  of  the  hand. 

It's  hard  for  Anglo-Saxons,  ante-social,  as 
suspicious  of  neighbors  as  if  they  still  lived  in  the 
boggy  forests  of  Finland,  city-dwellers  for  a  pal- 

[189] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

try  thirty  generations,  to  understand  the  pub 
licity,  the  communal  quality  of  life  in  the  region 
of  the  Mediterranean.  The  first  thought  when 
one  gets  up  is  to  go  out  of  doors  to  see  what 
people  are  talking  of,  the  last  thing  before  go 
ing  to  bed  is  to  chat  with  the  neighbors  about  the 
events  of  the  day.  The  home,  cloistered  off,  ex 
clusive,  can  hardly  be  said  to  exist.  Instead  of 
the  nordic  hearth  there  is  the  courtyard  about 
which  the  women  sit  while  the  men  are  away  at 
the  marketplace.  In  Spain  this  social  life  cen 
ters  in  the  cafe  and  the  casino.  The  modern 
theatre  is  as  directly  the  off  shoot  of  the  cafe  as 
the  old  theatre  was  of  the  marketplace  where  peo 
ple  gathered  in  front  of  the  church  porch  to  see 
an  interlude  or  mystery  acted  by  travelling  play 
ers  in  a  wagon.  The  people  who  write  the  plays, 
the  people  who  act  them  and  the  people  who  see 
them  spend  their  spare  time  smoking  about  mar- 
bletop  tables,  drinking  coffee,  discussing.  Those 
too  poor  to  buy  a  drink  stand  outside  in  groups 
the  sunny  side  of  squares.  Constant  talk  about 
everything  that  may  happen  or  had  happened  or 
will  happen  manages  to  butter  the  bread  of  life 

[190] 


Benavente's  Madrid 

pretty  evenly  with  passion  and  thought  and  sig 
nificance,  but  one  loses  the  chunks  of  intensity. 
There  is  little  chance  for  the  burst  dams  that 
suddenly  flood  the  dry  watercourse  of  emotion 
among  more  inhibited,  less  civilized  people.  Gen 
erations  upon  generations  of  townsmen  have 
made  of  life  a  well-dredged  canal,  easy-flowing, 
somewhat  shallow. 

It  follows  that  the  theatre  under  such  condi 
tions  shall  be  talkative,  witty,  full  of  neat  swift 
caricaturing,  improvised,  unself conscious ;  at  its 
worst,  glib.  Boisterous  action  often,  passionate 
strain  almost  never.  In  Echegaray  there  are 
hecatombs,  half  the  characters  habitually  go  in 
sane  in  the  last  act;  tremendous  barking  but  no 
bite  of  real  intensity.  Benavente  has  recaptured 
some  of  Lope  de  Vega's  marvellous  quality  of 
adventurous  progression.  The  Quinteros  write 
domestic  comedies  full  of  whim  and  sparkle  and 
tenderness.  But  expression  always  seems  too 
easy;  there  is  never  the  unbearable  tension,  the 
utter  self-forgetfulriess  of  the  greatest  drama. 
The  Spanish  theatre  plays  on  the  nerves  and  intel- 

[191] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

lect  rather  than  on  the  great  harp  strings  of  emo 
tion  in  which  all  of  life  is  drawn  taut. 

At  present  in  Madrid  even  cafe  life  is  reced 
ing  before  the  exigencies  of  business  and  the 
hardly  excusable  mania  for  imitating  English  and 
American  manners.  Spain  is^  undergoing  great 
changes  in  its  relation  to  the  rest  of  Europe,  to 
Latin  America,  in  its  own  internal  structure. 
Notwithstanding  Madrid's  wartime  growth  and 
prosperity,  the  city  is  fast  losing  ground  as  the 
nucleus  of  the  life  and  thought  of  Spanish-speak 
ing  people.  The  madrileno,  lean,  cynical,  un 
scrupulous,  nocturnal,  explosive  with  a  curious 
sort  of  febrile  wit  is  becoming  extinct.  His  thea 
tre  is  beginning  to  pander  to  foreign  tastes,  to  be 
ashamed  of  itself,  to  take  on  respectability  and 
stodginess.  Prices  of  seats,  up  to  1918  very  low, 
rise  continually;  the  artisans,  apprentice  boys, 
loafers,  clerks,  porters,  who  formed  the  back 
bone  of  the  audiences  can  no  longer  afford  the 
theatre  and  have  taken  to  the  movies  instead. 
Managers  spend  money  on  scenery  and  costumes 
as  a  way  of  attracting  fashionables.  It  has  be 
come  quite  proper  for  women  to  go  to  the  theatre. 

[192] 


Benavente's  Madrid 

Benavente's  plays  thus  acquire  double  signifi 
cance  as  the  summing  up  and  the  chief  expression 
of  a  movement  that  has  reached  its  hey-day,  from 
which  the  sap  has  already  been  cut  off.  It  is, 
indeed,  the  thing  to  disparage  them  for  their 
very  finest  quality,  the  vividness  with  which  they 
express  the  texture  of  Madrid,  the  animated 
humorous  mordant  conversation  about  cafe 
tables:  lo  castizo. 

The  first  play  of  his  I  ever  saw,  "Gente  Cono- 
ci(La"  impressed  me,  I  remember,  at  a  time  when 
I  understood  about  one  word  in  ten  and  had  to 
content  myself  with  following  the  general  modu 
lation  of  things,  as  carrying  on  to  the  stage,  the 
moment  the  curtain  rose,  the  very  people,  intona 
tions,  phrases,  that  were  stirring  in  the  seats 
about  me.  After  the  first  act  a  broad-bosomed 
lady  in  black  silk  leaned  back  in  the  seat  beside 
me  sighing  comfortably  "Que  castizo  es  este  Ben- 
avente"  and  then  went  into  a  volley  of  approving 
chirpings.  The  full  import  of  her  enthusiasm  did 
not  come  to  me  until  much  later  when  I  read  the 
play  in  the  comparative  light  of  a  surer  knowl 
edge  of  Castilian,  and  found  that  it  was  a  most 

[193] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

vitriolic  dissecting  of  the  manner  of  life  of  that 
very  dowager's  own  circle,  a  showing  up  of  the 
predatory  spite  of  "people  of  consequence." 
Here  was  this  society  woman,  who  in  any  other 
country  would  have  been  indignant,  enjoying  the 
annihilation  of  her  kind.  On  such  willingness 
to  play  the  game  of  wit,  even  of  abuse,  without 
too  much  rancor,  which  is  the  unction  to  ease  of 
social  intercourse,  is  founded  all  the  popularity 
of  Benavente's  writing.  Somewhere  in  Hugo's 
Spanish  grammar  jGod  save  the  mark!)  is  a 
proverb  to  the  effect  that  the  wind  of  Madrid  is 
so  subtle  that  it  will  kill  a  man  without  putting 
out  a  candle.  The  same,  at  their  best,  can  be  said 
of  Benavente's  satiric  comedies : 

El  viento  de  Madrid  es  tan  sutil 

que  mata  a  un  hombre  y  no  apaga  un  candil. 

From  the  opposite  bank  of  the  Manzanares,  a 
slimy  shrunken  stream  usually  that  flows  almost 
hidden  under  clothes  lines  where  billow  the  under 
garments  of  all  Madrid,  in  certain  lights  you 
can  recapture  almost  entire  the  silhouettte  of  the 
city  as  Goya  has  drawn  it  again  and  again;  clots 

[194] 


Benaventes  Madrid 

of  peeling  stucco  houses  huddling  up  a  flattened 
hill  towards  the  dome  of  San  Francisco  El 
Grande,  then  an  undulating  skyline  with  cupo 
las  and  baroque  belfries  jutting  among  the  sud 
den  lights  and  darks  of  the  clouds.  Then  per 
haps  the  sun  will  light  up  with  a  spreading  shaft 
of  light  the  electric-light  factory,  the  sign  on  a 
biscuit  manufacturer's  warehouse,  a  row  of  white 
blocks  of  apartments  along  the  edge  of  town  to 
the  north,  and  instead  of  odd  grimy  aboriginal 
Madrid,  it  will  be  a  type  city  in  Europe  in  the 
industrial  era  that  shines  in  the  sun  beyond  the 
blue  shadows  and  creamy  flashes  of  the  clothes  on 
the  lines.  So  will  it  be  in  a  few  years  with  mod 
ernized  Madrid,  with  the  life  of  cafes  and  paseos 
and  theatres.  There  will  be  moments  when  in 
American  automats,  elegant  smokeless  tearooms, 
shiny  restaurants  built  in  copy  of  those  of  Bue 
nos  Aires,  someone  who  has  read  his  Benavente 
will  be  able  to  catch  momentary  glimpses  of  old 
intonations,  of  witty  parries,  of  noisy  bombastic 
harangues  and  feel  for  one  pentecostal  moment 
the  full  and  by  that  time  forgotten  import  of  lo 
castizo. 

[195] 


XV:  Talk  by  the  Road 

THE  sun  next  morning  was  tingling  warm. 
Telemachus  strode  along  with  a  taste  of 
a  milky  bowl  of  coffee  and  crisp  churros  in  his 
mouth  and  a  fresh  wind  in  his  hair ;  his  feet  rasped 
pleasantly  on  the  gravel  of  the  road.  Behind  him 
the  town  sank  into  the  dun  emerald-striped  plain, 
roofs  clustering,  huddling  more  and  more  under 
the  shadow  of  the  beetling  church,  and  the  tower 
becoming  leaner  and  darker  against  the  steamy 
clouds  that  oozed  in  billowing  tiers  over  the 
mountains  to  the  north.  Crows  flapped  about 
the  fields  where  here  and  there  the  dark  figures 
of  a  man  and  a  pair  of  mules  moved  up  a  long 
slope.  On  the  telegraph  wires  at  a  bend  in  the 
road  two  magpies  sat,  the  sunlight  glinting,  when 
they  stirred,  on  the  white  patches  on  their  wings. 
Telemachus  felt  well-rested  and  content  with 
himself. 

"After  all  mother  knows  best,"  he  was  think- 
[196] 


Talk  by  the  Road 

ing.  "That  foolish  Lyaeus  will  come  dragging 
himself  into  Toledo  a  week  from  now." 

Before  noon  he  came  on  the  same  Don  Alonso 
he  had  seen  the  day  before  in  Illescas.  Don 
Alonso  was  stretched  out  under  an  olive  tree,  a 
long  red  sausage  in  his  hand,  a  loaf  of  bread  and 
a  small  leather  bottle  of  wine  on  the  sward  in 
front  of  him.  Hitched  to  the  tree,  at  the  bark  of 
which  he  nibbled  with  long  teeth,  was  the  grey 
horse. 

"Hola,  my  friend,"  cried  Don  Alonso,  "still 
bent  on  Toledo?" 

"How  soon  can  I  get  there?" 

"Soon  enough  to  see  the  castle  of  San  Ser- 
vando  against  the  sunset.  We  will  go  together. 
You  travel  as  fast  as  my  old  nag.  But  do  me  the 
honor  of  eating  something,  you  must  be  hungry." 
Thereupon  Don  Alonso  handed  Telemachus  the 
sausage  and  a  knife  to  peel  and  slice  it  with. 

"How  early  you  must  have  started." 

They  sat  together  munching  bread  and  saus 
age  to  which  the  sweet  pepper  mashed  into  it 
gave  a  bright  red  color,  and  occasionally,  head 

[197] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

thrown  back,  let  a  little  wine  squirt  into  their 
mouths  from  the  bottle. 

Don  Alonso  waved  discursively  a  bit  of  saus 
age  held  between  bread  by  tips  of  long  grey  fin 
gers. 

"You  are  now,  my  friend,  in  the  heart  of 
Castile.  Look,  nothing  but  live-oaks  along  the 
gulches  and  wheat-lands  rolling  up  under  a  tre 
mendous  sky.  Have  you  ever  seen  more  sky?  In 
Madrid  there  is  not  so  much  sky,  is  there?  In 
your  country  there  is  not  so  much  sky?  Look  at 
the  huge  volutes  of  those  clouds.  This  is  a  set 
ting  for  thoughts  as  mighty  in  contour  as  the 
white  cumulus  over  the  Sierra,  such  as  come  into 
the  minds  of  men  lean,  wind-tanned,  long-strid 
ing  .  .  ."  Don  Alonso  put  a  finger  to  his  high 
yellow  forehead.  "There  is  in  Castile  a  potential 
beauty,  my  friend,  something  humane,  tolerant, 
vivid,  robust  ...  I  don't  say  it  is  in  me.  My 
only  merit  lies  in  recognizing  it,  formulating  it, 
for  I  am  no  more  than  a  thinker  .  .  .  But  the 
day  will  come  when  in  this  gruff  land  we  shall 
have  flower  and  fruit." 

Don  Alonso  was  smiling  with  thin  lips,  head 
[198] 


Talk  by  the  Road 

thrown  back  against  the  twisted  trunk  of  the 
olive  tree.  Then  all  at  once  he  got  to  his  feet, 
and  after  rummaging  a  moment  in  the  little  knap 
sack  that  hung  over  his  shoulder,  produced  ab 
sent-mindedly  a  handful  of  small  white  candies 
the  shape  of  millstones  which  he  stared  at  in  a 
puzzled  way  for  some  seconds. 

"After  all,"  he  went  on,  "they  make  famous 
sweets  in  these  old  Castilian  towns.  These  are 
melindres.  Have  one  .  .  .  When  people,  d'you 
know,  are  kind  to  children,  there  are  things  to  be 
expected." 

"Certainly  children  are  indulgently  treated  in 
Spain,"  said  Telemachus,  his  mouth  full  of  al 
mond  paste.  "They  actually  seem  to  like  chil 
dren!" 

A  cart  drawn  by  four  mules  tandem  led  by  a 
very  minute  donkey  with  three  strings  of  blue 
beads  round  his  neck  was  jingling  past  along  the 
road.  As  the  canvas  curtains  of  the  cover  were 
closed  the  only  evidence  of  the  driver  was  a  sleepy 
song  in  monotone  that  trailed  with  the  dust 
cloud  after  the  cart.  While  they  stood  by  the 

[199] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

roadside  watching  the  joggle  of  it  away  from 
them  down  the  road,  a  flushed  face  was  poked  out 
from  between  the  curtains  and  a  voice  cried 
"Hello,  Tel!" 

"It's  Lyaeus,"  cried  Telemachus  and  ran  after 
the  cart  bubbling  with  curiosity  to  hear  his  com 
panion's  adventures. 

With  a  jangle  of  mulebells  and  a  hoarse  shout 
from  the  driver  the  cart  stopped,  and  Lyaeus 
tumbled  out.  His  hair  was  mussed  and  there 
were  wisps  of  hay  on  his  clothes.  He  immedi 
ately  stuck  his  head  back  in  through  the  cur 
tains.  By  the  time  Telemachus  reached  him  the 
cart  was  tinkling  its  way  down  the  road  again 
and  Lyaeus  stood  grinning,  blinking  sleepy  eyes 
in  the  middle  of  the  road,  in  one  hand  a  skin  of 
wine,  in  the  other  a  canvas  bag. 

"What  ho!"  cried  Telemachus. 

"Figs  and  wine,"  said  Lyaeus.  Then,  as  Don 
Alonso  came  up  leading  his  grey  horse,  he  added 
in  an  explanatory  tone,  "I  was  asleep  in  the 
cart." 

"Well?"  said  Telemachus. 

"O  it's  such  a  long  story,"  said  Lyaeus. 
[200] 


Talk  by  the  Road 

Walking  beside  them,  Don  Alonso  was  recit 
ing  into  his  horse's  ear: 

'Sigue  la  vana  sombra,  el  bien  fingido. 

El  hombre  esta  entregado 

al  sueno.  de  su  suerte  no  cuidando, 

y  con  paso  callado 

el  cielo  vueltas  dando 

las  horas  del  vivir  le  va  hurtando.' 

"Whose  is  that?"  said  Lyaeus. 

"The  revolving  sky  goes  stealing  his  hours  of 
life.  .  .  .  But  I  don't  know,"  said  Don  Alonso, 
"perhaps  like  you,  this  Spain  of  ours  makes 
ground  sleeping  as  well  as  awake.  What  does  a 
day  matter?  The  driver  snores  but  the  good 
mules  jog  on  down  the  appointed  road." 

Then  without  another  word  he  jumped  on  his 
horse  ^nd  with  a  smile  and  a  wave  of  the  hand 
trotted  off  ahead  of  them. 


[201] 


XVI:  A  Funeral  in  Madrid 

Doce  dias  son  pasados 
despues  que  el  Cid  acabdra 
aderezanse  las  gentes 
para  salir  a  batalla 
con  Bucar  ese  rey  moro 
y  contra  la  su  canalla. 
Cuando  fuera  media  noche 
el  cuerpo  asi  como  estaba 
le  ponen  sobre  Babieca 
y  al  caballo  lo  ataban. 


AND  when  the  army  sailed  out  of  Valencia 
the  Moors  of  King  Bucar  fled  before  the 
dead  body  of  the  Cid  and  ten  thousand  of  them 
were  drowned  trying  to  scramble  into  their  ships, 
among  them  twenty  kings,  and  the  Christians 
got  so  much  booty  of  gold  and  silver  among  the 
tents  that  the  poorest  of  them  became  a  rich  man. 
Then  the  army  continued,  the  dead  Cid  riding 
each  day's  journey  on  his  horse,  across  the  dry 
mountains  to  Sant  Pedro  de  Cardena  in  Castile 
where  the  king  Don  Alfonso  had  come  from  To- 

[202] 


A  Funeral  in  Madrid 

ledo,  and  he  seeing  the  Cid's  face  still  so  beauti 
ful  and  his  beard  so  long  and  his  eyes  so  flaming 
ordered  that  instead  of  closing  the  body  in  a 
coffin  with  gold  nails  they  should  set  it  upright 
in  a  chair  beside  the  altar,  with  the  sword  Tizona 
in  its  hand.  And  there  the  C,jd  stayed  more  than 
ten  years. 

M.ando  que  no  se  enterrase 
sino  que  el  cuerpo  arreado 
se  ponga  junto  al  altar 
y  a  Tizona  en  la  su  mano; 
asi  estuvo  mucho  tiempo 
que  fueron  mas  de  diez  anos. 

In  the  pass  above  people  were  skiing.  On  the 
hard  snow  of  the  road  there  were  orange-skins. 
A  victoria  had  just  driven  by  in  which  sat  a  bored 
inflated  couple  much  swathed  in  furs. 

"Where  on  earth  are  they  going?" 

"To  the  Puerta  de  Navecerrada,"  my  friend 
answered. 

"But  they  look  as  if  they'd  be  happier  having 
tea  at  Molinero's  than  paddling  about  up  there 
in  the  snow." 

"They  would  be,  but  it's  the  style  .  .  .  winter 
[203] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

sports  .  .  .  and  all  because  a  lithe  little  brown 
man  who  died  two  years  ago  liked  the  moun 
tains.  Before  him  no  madrileno  ever  knew  the 
Sierra  existed." 

"Who  was  that?" 

"Don  Francisco  Giner." 

That  afternoon  when  it  was  already  getting 
dark  we  were  scrambling  wet,  chilled,  our  faces 
lashed  by  the  snow,  down  through  drifts  from  a 
shoulder  of  Siete  Picos  with  the  mist  all  about 
us  and  nothing  but  the  track  of  a  flock  of  sheep 
for  a  guide.  The  light  from  a  hut  pushed  a  long 
gleaming  orange  finger  up  the  mountainside. 
Once  inside  we  pulled  off  our  shoes  and  stockings 
and  toasted  our  feet  at  a  great  fireplace  round 
which  were  flushed  faces,  glint  of  teeth  in  laugh 
ter,  schoolboys  and  people  from  the  university 
shouting  and  declaiming,  a  smell  of  tea  and  wet 
woolens.  Everybody  was  noisy  with  the  rather 
hysterical  excitement  that  warmth  brings  after 
exertion  in  cold  mountain  air.  Cheeks  were  pur 
ple  and  tingling.  A  young  man  with  fuzzy  yel 
low  hair  told  me,  a  story  jn  French  about  the 
Emperor  of  Morocco,  and  produced  a  tin  of 

[204] 


A  Funeral  in  Madrid 

potted  blackbirds  which  it  came  out  were  from 
the  said  personage's  private  stores.  Unending 
fountains  of  tea  seethed  in  two  smoke -blackened 
pots  on  the  hearth.  In  the  back  of  the  hut  among 
leaping  shadows  were  piles  of  skis  and  the  door, 
which  occasionally  opened  to  let  in  a  new  wet 
snowy  figure  and  shut  again  on  skimming  snow- 
gusts.  Everyone  was  rocked  with  enormous 
jollity.  Train  time  came  suddenly  and  we  ran 
and  stumbled  and  slid  the  miles  to  the  station 
through  the  dark,  down  the  rocky  path. 

In  the  third-class  carriage  people  sang  songs 
as  the  train  jounced  its  way  towards  the  plain 
and  Madrid.  The  man  who  sat  next  to  me  asked 
me  if  I  knew  it  was  Don  Francisco  who  had  had 
that  hut  built  for  the  children  of  the  Institution 
Libre  de  Insenanza.  Little  by  little  he  told  me 
the  history  of  the  Krausistas  and  Francisco  Giner 
de  los  Rios  and  the  revolution  of  1873,  a  story 
like  enough  to  many  others  in  the  annals  of  the 
nineteenth  century  movement  for  education,  but 
in  its  overtones  so  intimately  Spanish  and  individ 
ual  that  it  came  as  the  explanation  of  many 
things  I  had  been  wondering  about  and  gave  me 

[205] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

an  inkling  of  some  of  the  origins  of  a  rather 
special  mentality  I  had  noticed  in  people  I  knew 
about  Madrid. 

Somewhere  in  the  forties  a  professor  of  the 
Universidad  Central,  Sanz  del  Rio,  was  sent  to 
Germany  to  study  philosophy  on  a  government 
scholarship.  Spain  was  still  in  the  intellectual 
coma  that  had  followed  the  failure  of  the  Cortes 
of  Cadiz  and  the  restoration  of  Fernando  Sep- 
timo.  A  decade  or  more  before,  Larra,  the  last 
flame  of  romantic  revolt,  had  shot  himself  for 
love  in  Madrid.  In  Germany,  at  Heidelberg, 
Sanz  del  Rio  found  dying  Krause,  the  first  arch- 
priest  who  stood  interpreting  between  Kant  and 
the  world.  When  he  returned  to  Spain  he  re 
fused  to  take  up  his  chair  at  the  university  say 
ing  he  must  have  time  to  think  out  his  problems, 
and  retired  to  a  tiny  room — a  room  so  dark  that 
they  say  that  to  read  he  had  to  sit  on  a  stepladder 
under  the  window  in  the  town  of  Illescas,  where 
was  another  student,  Greco's  San  Ildefonso. 
There  he  lived  several  years  in  seclusion.  When 
he  did  return  to  the  university  it  was  to  refuse  to 
make  the  profession  of  political  and  religious 

[206] 


A  Funeral  in  Madrid 

faith  required  by  a  certain  prime  minister  named 
Orovio.  He  was  dismissed  and  several  of  his 
disciples.  At  the  same  time  Francisco  Giner 
de  los  Rios,  then  a  young  man  who  had  just 
gained  an  appointment  with  great  difficulty  be 
cause  of  his  liberal  ideas,  resigned  out  of  solidar 
ity  with  the  rest.  In  1868  came  the  liberal  rev 
olution  which  was  the  political  expression  of  this 
whole  movement,  and  all  these  professors  were 
reinstated.  Until  the  restoration  of  the  Bour 
bons  in  '75  Spain  was  a  hive  of  modernization, 
Europeanization. 

Returned  to  power  Orovio  lost  no  time  in  re- 
publishing  his  decrees  of  a  profession  of  faith. 
Giner,  Ascarate,  Salmeron  and  several  others 
were  arrested  and  exiled  to  distant  fortresses 
when  they  protested ;  their  friends  declared  them 
selves  in  sympathy  and  lost  their  jobs,  and  many 
other  professors  resigned,  so  that  the  university 
was  at  one  blow  denuded  of  its  best  men.  From 
this  came  the  idea  of  founding  a  free  university 
which  should  be  supported  entirely  by  private 
subscription.  From  that  moment  the  life  of 
Giner  de  los  Rios  was  completely  entwined  with 

[207] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

the  growth  of  the  Institution  Libre  de  Inse- 
nanza,  which  developed  in  the  course  of  a  few 
years  into  a  coeducational  primary  school.  And 
directly  or  indirectly  there  is  not  a  single  out 
standing  figure  in  Spanish  life  to-day  whose  de 
velopment  was  not  largely  influenced  by  this 
dark  slender  baldheaded  old  man  with  a  white 
beard  whose  picture  one  finds  on  people's  writ 
ing  desks. 

.  .  .  Oh,  si,  llevad,  amigos, 
su  cuerpo  a  la  montana 
a  los  azules  montes 
del  ancho  Guadarrama, 

wrote  his  pupil,  Antonio  Machado — and  I  rather 
think  Machado  is  the  pupil  whose  name  will  live 
the  longest — after  Don  Francisco's  death  in 
1915. 

.  .  .  Yes,  carry,  friends 
his  body  to  the  hills 
to  the  blue  peaks 
of  the  wide  Guadarrama. 
There  are  deep  gulches 
of  green  pines  where  the  wind  sings. 
There  is  rest  for  his  spirit 
[208] 


A  Funeral  in  Madrid 

under  a  cold  live  oak 

in  loam  full  of  thyme,  where  play 

golden  butterflies  .  .  . 

There  the  master  one  day 

dreamed  new  flowerings  for  Spain. 

These  are  fragments  from  an  elegy  by  Juan 
Ramon  Jimenez,  another  poet-pupil  of  Don 
Francisco : 

"Don  Francisco.  ...  It  seemed  that  he  summed 
up  all  that  is  tender  and  keen  in  life:  flowers,  flames, 
birds,  peaks,  children.  .  .  .  Now,  stretched  on  his  bed, 
like  a  frozen  river  that  perhaps  still  flows  under  the 
ice,  he  is  the  clear  path  for  endless  recurrence.  .  .  . 
He  was  like  a  living  statue  of  himself,  a  statue  of 
earth,  of  wind,  of  water,  of  fire.  He  had  so  freed 
himself  from  the  husk  of  every  day  that  talking  to 
him  we  might  have  thought  we  were  talking  to  his 
image.  Yes.  One  would  have  said  he  wasn't  going 
to  die:  that  he  had  already  passed,  without  anybody's 
knowing  it,  beyond  death;  that  he  was  with  us  for 
ever,  like  a  spirit. 

"In  the  little  door  of  the  bedroom  one  already  feels 
well-being.  A  trail  of  the  smell  of  thyme  and  violets 
that  comes  and  goes  with  the  breeze  from  the  open 
window  leads  like  a  delicate  hand  towards  where  he 

[209] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

lies.  .  .  .  Peace.  All  death  has  done  has  been  to  in 
fuse  the  color  of  his  skin  with  a  deep  violet  veiling 
of  ashes. 

"What  a  suave  smell,  and  how  excellent  death  is 
here!  No  rasping  essences,  none  of  the  exterior  of 
blackness  and  crepe.  All  this  is  white  and  uncluttered, 
like  a  hut  in  the  fields  in  Andalusia,  like  the  white 
washed  portal  of  some  garden  in  the  south.  All  just 
as  it  was.  Only  he  who  was  there  has  gone. 

"The  day  is  fading,  with  a  little  wind  that  has  a 
premonition  of  spring.  In  the  window  panes  is  a  con 
fused  mirroring  of  rosy  clouds.  The  blackbird,  the 
blackbird  that  he  must  have  heard  for  thirty  years, 
that  he'd  have  liked  to  have  gone  on  hearing  dead, 
has  come  to  see  if  he's  listening.  Peace.  The  bed 
room  and  the  garden  strive  quietly  light  against  light : 
the  brightness  of  the  bedroom  is  stronger  and  glows  out 
into  the  afternoon.  A  sparrow  flutters  up  into  the 
sudden  stain  with  which  the  sun  splashes  the  top  of 
a  tree  and  sits  there  twittering.  'In  the  shadow  below 
the  blackbird  whistles  once  more.  Now  and  then  one 
seems  to  hear  the  voice  that  is  silenced  forever. 

"How  pleasant  to  be  here!  It's  like  sitting  beside  a 
spring,  reading  under  a  tree,  like  letting  the  stream 
of  a  lyric  river  carry  one  away.  .  .  .  And  one  feels 
like  never  moving:  like  plucking  to  infinity,  as  one 
might  tear  roses  to  pieces,  these  white  full  hours;  like 

[210] 


A  Funeral  in  Madrid 

clinging  forever  to   this   clear  teacher  in  the  eternal 
twilight  of  this  last  lesson  of  austerity  and  beauty. 

"  'Municipal  Cemetery'  it  says  on  the  gate,  so  that 
one  may  know,  opposite  that  other  cign  'Catholic 
Cemetery,'  so  that  one  may  also  know. 

"He  didn't  want  to  be  buried  in  that  cemetery,  so  op 
posed  to  the  smiling  savourous  poetry  of  his  spirit.  But 
it  had  to  be.  He'll  still  hear  the  blackbirds  of  the  famil 
iar  garden.  'After  all,'  says  Cossio,  'I  don't  think 
he'll  be  sorry  to  spend  a  little  while  with  Don  Ju 
lian.  .  .  .' 

"Careful  hands  have  taken  the  dampness  out  of  the 
earth  with  thyme ;  on  the  coffin  they  have  thrown  roses, 
narcissus,  violets.  There  comes,  lost,  an  aroma  of 
last  evening,  a  bit  of  the  bedroom  from  which  they 
took  so  much  away.  .  .  . 

"Silence.  Faint  sunlight.  Great  piles  of  cloud  full 
of  wind  drag  frozen  shadows  across  us,  and  through 
them  flying  low,  black  grackles.  In  the  distance  Gua- 
darrama,  chaste  beyond  belief,  lifts  crystals  of  cubed 
white  light.  Some  tiny  bird  trills  for  a  second  in  the 
sown  fields  nearby  that  are  already  vaguely  greenish, 
then  lights  on  the  creamy  top  of  a  tomb,  then  flies 
away.  .  .  . 

"Neither  impatience  nor  cares;  slowness  and  for- 
getfulness.  .  .  .  Silence.  In  the  silence,  the  voice  of  a 
child  walking  through  the  fields,  the  sound  of  a  sob 

[211] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

hidden  among  the  tombstones,  the  wind,  the  broad  wind 
of  these  days.  ... 

"Fve  seen  occasionally  a  fire  put  out  with  earth. 
Innumerable  little  tongues  spurted  from  every  side.  A 
pupil  of  his  who  was  a  mason  made  for  this  extinguished 
fire  its  palace  of  mud  on  a  piece  of  earth  two  friends 
kept  free.  He  has  at  the  head  a  euonymus,  young 
and  strong,  and  at  the  foot,  already  full  of  sprouts 
with  coming  spring,  an  acacia.  .  .  ." 

Round  El  Pardo  the  evergreen  oaks,  enemas, 
are  scattered  sparsely,  tight  round  heads  of  blue 
green,  over  hills  that  in  summer  are  yellow  like 
the  haunches  of  lions.  From  Madrid  to  El  Pardo 
was  one  of  Don  Francisco's  favorite  walks,  out 
past  the  jail,  where  over  the  gate  is  written  an 
echo  of  his  teaching:  "Abhor  the  crime  but  pity 
the  criminal,"  past  the  palace  of  Moncloa  with 
its  stately  abandoned  gardens,  and  out  along  the 
Manzanares  by  a  road  through'  the  royal  domain 
where  are  gamekeepers  with  shotguns  and  signs 
of  "Beware  the  mantraps,"  then  up  a  low  hill 
from  which  one  sees  the  Sierra  Guadarrama  piled 
up  against  the  sky  to  the  north,  greenish  snow- 
peaks  above  long  blue  foothills  and  all  the  fore- 

[212] 


A  Funeral  in  Madrid 

ground  rolling  land  full  of  clumps  of  encinas, 
and  at  last  into  the  little  village  with  its  barracks 
and  its  dilapidated  convent  and  its  planetrees  in 
front  of  the  mansion  Charles  V  built.  It  was 
under  an  encina  that  I  sat  all  one  long  morning 
reading  up  in  reviews  and  textbooks  on  the  the 
ory  of  law,  the  life  and  opinions  of  Don  Fran 
cisco.  In  the  moments  when  the  sun  shone  the 
heat  made  the  sticky  cistus  bushes  with  the  glis 
tening  white  flowers  all  about  me  reek  with  pung- 
ence.  Then  a  cool  whisp  of  wind  would  bring  a 
chill  of  snow- slopes  from  the  mountains  and  a 
passionless  indefinite  fragrance  of  distances.  At 
intervals  a  church  bell  would  toll  in  a  peevish  im 
portunate  manner  from  the  boxlike  convent  on 
the  hill  opposite.  I  was  reading  an  account  of  the 
philosophical  concept  of  monism,  cudgelling  my 
brain  with  phrases.  And  his  fervent  love  of  na 
ture  made  the  master  evoke  occasionally  in  class 
this  beautiful  image  of  the  great  poet  and  philos 
opher  Schelling:  "Man  is  the  eye  with  which  the 
spirit  of  nature  contemplates  itself";  and  then 
having  qualified  with  a  phrase  Schelling's  expres 
sion,  he  would  turn  on  those  who  see  in  nature 

[213] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

manifestation  of  the  rough,  the  gross,  the  instinc 
tive,  and  offer  for  meditation  this  saying  of 
Michelet:  "Cloth  woven  by  a  weaver  is  just  as 
natural  as  that  a  spider  weaves.  All  is  in  one 
Being,  all  is  in  the  Idea  and  for  the  Idea,  the  lat 
ter  being  understood  in  the  way  Platonic  sub- 
stantialism  has  been  interpreted  .  .  ." 

In  the  grass  under  my  book  were  bright  fronds 
of  moss,  among  which  very  small  red  ants  per 
formed  prodigies  of  mountaineering,  while  along 
tramped  tunnels  long  black  ants  scuttled  darkly, 
glinting  when  the  light  struck  them.  The  smell 
of  cistus  was  intense,  hot,  full  of  spices  as  the 
narrow  streets  of  an  oriental  town  at  night.  In 
the  distance  the  mountains  piled  up  in  zones  olive 
green,  Prussian  blue,  ultra-marine,  white.  A 
cold  wind-gust  turned  the  pages  of  the  book. 
Thought  and  passion,  reflection  and  instinct,  af 
fections,  emotions,  impulses  collaborate  in  the 
rule  of  custom,  which  is  revealed  not  in  words  de 
clared  and  promulgated  in  view  of  future  con 
duct,  but  in  the  act  itself,  tacit,  taken  for 
granted,  or,  according  to  the  energetic  expres 
sion  of  the  Digest :  rebus  et  factis.  Over  "factis," 

[214] 


A  Funeral  in  Madrid 

sat  a  little  green  and  purple  fly  with  the  body 
curved  under  at  the  table.  I  wondered  vaguely 
if  it  was  a  Mayfly.  And  then  all  of  a  sudden  it 
was  clear  to  me  that  these  books,  these  dusty 
philosophical  phrases,  these  mortuary  articles  by 
official  personages  were  dimming  the  legend  in 
my  mind,  taking  the  brilliance  out  of  the  indi 
rect  but  extraordinarily  personal  impact  of  the 
man  himself.  They  embalmed  the  Cid  and  set 
him  up  in  the  church  with  his  sword  in  his  hand, 
for  all  men  to  see.  What  sort  of  legend  would 
a  technical  disquisition  by  the  archbishop  on  his 
theory  of  the  angle  of  machicolations  have  gen 
erated  in  men's  minds?  And  what  can  a  saint  or 
a  soldier  or  a  founder  of  institutions  leave  behind 
him  but  a  legend?  Certainly  it  is  not  for  the 
Franciscans  that  one  remembers  Francis  of 
Assisi. 

And  the  curious  thing  about  the  legend  of  a 
personality  is  that  it  may  reach  the  highest  fer 
vor  without  being  formulated.  It  is  something 
by  itself  that  stands  behind  anecdotes,  death- 
notices,  elegies. 

In  Madrid  at  the  funeral  of  another  of  the 
[215] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

great  figures  of  nineteenth  century  Spain,  Perez 
Galdos,  I  stood  on  the  curb  beside  a  large- 
mouthed  youth  with  a  flattened  toadlike  face, 
who  was  balancing  a  great  white-metal  jar  of 
milk  on  his  shoulder.  The  plumed  hearse  and 
the  carriages  full  of  flowers  had  just  passed.  The 
street  in  front  of  us  was  a  slow  stream  of  people 
very  silent,  their  feet  shuffling,  shuffling,  feet  in 
patent-leather  shoes  and  spats,  feet  in  square-toed 
shoes,  pointed-toed  shoes,  alpargatas,  canvas 
sandals ;  people  along  the  sides  seemed  unable  to 
resist  the  suction  of  it,  joined  in  unostentatiously 
to  follow  if  only  a  few  moments  the  procession 
of  the  legend  of  Don  Benito.  The  boy  with  the 
milk  turned  to  me  and  said  how  lucky  it  was  they 
were  burying  Galdos,  he'd  have  an  excuse  for 
being  late  for  the  milk.  Then  suddenly  he 
pulled  his  cap  off  and  became  enormously  excited 
and  began  offering  cigarettes  to  everyone  round 
about.  He  scratched  his  head  and  said  in  the 
voice  of  a  Saul  stricken  on  the  road  to  Damas 
cus:  "How  many  books  he  must  have  written, 
that  gentleman !  /  Cdspita!  ...  It  makes  a  fel 
low  sorry  when  a  gentleman  like  that  dies,"  and 

[216] 


A  Funeral  in  Madrid 

shouldering  his  pail,  his  blue  tunic  fluttering  in 
the  wind,  he  joined  the  procession. 

Like  the  milk  boy  I  found  myself  joining  the 
procession  of  the  legend  of  Giner  de  los  Rios. 
That  morning  under  the  encina  I  closed  up  the 
volumes  on  the  theory  of  law  and  the  bulletins 
with  their  death-notices  and  got  to  my  feet  and 
looked  over  the  tawny  hills  of  El  Bardo  and 
thought  of  the  little  lithe  baldheaded  man  with 
a  white  beard  like  the  beard  in  El  Greco's  por 
trait  of  Covarrubias,  who  had  taught  a  genera 
tion  to  love  the  tremendous  contours  of  their 
country,  to  climb  mountains  and  bathe  in  cold 
torrents,  who  was  the  first,  it  almost  seems,  to 
feel  the  tragic  beauty  of  Toledo,  who  in  a  life 
time  of  courageous  unobtrusive  work  managed 
to  stamp  all  the  men  and  women  whose  lives  re 
motely  touched  his  with  the  seal  of  his  personality. 
Born  in  Ronda  in  the  wildest  part  of  Andalusia 
of  a  family  that  came  from  Velez-Malaga,  a  white 
town  near  the  sea  in  the  rich  fringes  of  the  Sierra 
Nevada,  he  had  the  mental  agility  and  the  scep 
tical  tolerance  and  the  uproarious  good  nature 
of  the  people  of  that  region,  the  sobriety  and 

[217] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

sinewiness  of  a  mountaineer.  His  puritanism 
became  a  definite  part  of  the  creed  of  the  hopeful 
discontented  generations  that  are  gradually,  for 
better  or  for  worse,  remoulding  Spain,.  His 
nostalgia  of  the  north,  of  fjords  where  fir  trees 
hang  over  black  tidal  waters,  of  blonde  people 
cheerfully  orderly  in  rectangular  blue-tiled 
towns,  became  the  gospel  of  Europeanization,  of 
wholesale  destruction  of  all  that  was  individual, 
savage,  African  in  the  Spanish  tradition.  Rebus 
et  factis.  And  yet  none  of  the  things  and  acts 
do  much  to  explain  the  peculiar  radiance  of  his 
memory,  the  jovial  tenderness  with  which  people 
tell  one  about  him.  The  immanence  of  the  man 
is  such  that  even  an  outsider,  one  who  like  the 
milk  boy  at  the  funeral  of  Galdos  meets  the  pro 
cession  accidentally  with  another  errand  in  his 
head,  is  drawn  in  almost  without  knowing  it.  It's 
impossible  to  think  of  him  buried  in  a  box  in  un- 
consecrated  ground  in  the  Cementerio  Civil.  In 
Madrid,  in  the  little  garden  of  the  Institution 
where  he  used  to  teach  the  children,  in  front  of 
a  certain  open  fire  in  a  certain  house  at  El  Pardo 
where  they  say  he  loved  to  sit  and  talk,  I  used 

[218] 


A  Funeral  In  Madrid 

to  half  expect  to  meet  him,  that  some  friend 
would  take  me  to  see  him  as  they  took  people  to 
see  Cid  in  San  Pedro  de  Cardena. 

Cara  tiene  de  hermosura 
muy  hermosa  y  colorada; 
los  ojos  igual  abiertos 
muy  apuesta  la  su  barba 
Non  parece  que  esta  muerto 
antes  vivo  seme j  aba. 

II 

Although  Miguel  de  Unamuno  was  recently 
condemned  to  fifteen  years'  imprisonment  for 
Use  tnajeste  for  some  remark  made  in  an  article 
published  in  a  Valencia  paper,  no  attempt  has 
been  made  either  to  make  him  serve  the  term  or 
to  remove  him  from  the  chair  of  Greek  at  the 
University  of  Salamanca.  Which  proves  some 
thing  about  the  efficiency  of  the  stand  Giner  de 
los  Rios  and  his  friends  made  fifty  years  before. 
Furthermore,  at  the  time  of  the  revolutionary  at 
tempt  of  August,  1917,  the  removal  of  Bestiero 
from  his  chair  caused  so  many  of  the  faculty  to 
resign  and  such  universal  protest  that  he  was  re- 

[219] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

instated  although  an  actual  member  of  the  revo 
lutionary  committee  and  at  that  time  under  sen 
tence  for  life.  In  1875  after  the  fall  of  the 
republic  it  had  been  in  the  face  of  universal  popu 
lar  reaction  that  the  Krausistas  founded  their 
free  university.  The  lump  is  leavened. 

But  Unamuno.  A  Basque  from  the  country 
of  Loyola,  living  in  Salamanca  in  the  highest 
coldest  part  of  the  plateau  of  old  Castile,  in 
many  senses  the  opposite  of  Giner  de  los  Rios, 
who  was  austere  as  a  man  on  a  long  pleasant  walk 
doesn't  overeat  or  overdrink  so  that  the  walk 
may  be  longer  and  pleasanter,  while  Unamuno 
is  austere  religiously,  mystically.  Giner  de  los 
Rios  was  the  champion  of  life,  Unamuno  is  the 
champion  of  death.  Here  is  his  creed,  one  of  his 
creeds,  from  the  preface  of  the  Vida  de  Don 
Qwjate  y  Sancho: 

"There  is  no  future:  there  is  never  a  future.  This 
thing  they  call  the  future  is  one  of  the  greatest  lies.  To 
day  is  the  real  future.  What  will  we  be  to-morrow? 
There  is  no  to-morrow.  What  about  us  to-day,  now ; 
that  is  the  only  question. 

"And  as  for  to-day,  all  these  nincompoops  are  thor- 
[220] 


A  Funeral  in  Madrid 

oughly  satisfied  because  they  exist  to-day,  mere  exist 
ence  is  enough  for  them.  Existence,  ordinary  naked 
existence  fills  their  whole  soul.  They  feel  nothing  be 
yond  existence. 

"But  do  they  exist?  Really  exist?  I  think  not, 
because  if  they  did  exist,  if  they  really  existed,  exist 
ence  would  be  suffering  for  them  and  they  wouldn't 
content  themselves  with  it.  If  they  really  and  truly 
existed  in  time  and  space  they  would  suffer  not  being 
of  eternity  and  infinity.  And  this  suffering,  this  pas 
sion,  what  is  it  but  the  passion  of  God  in  us?  God 
who  suffers  in  us  from  our  temporariness  and  finitude, 
that  divine  suffering  will  burst  all  the  puny  bonds  of 
logic  with  which  they  try  to  tie  down  their  puny 
memories  and  their  puny  hopes,  the  illusion  of  their 
past  and  the  illusion  of  their  future. 

•  ••••• 

"Your  Quixotic  madness  has  made  you  more  than 
once  speak  to  me  of  Quixotism  as  the  new  religion. 
And  I  tell  you  that  this  new  religion  you  propose  to 
me,  if  it  hatched,  would  have  two  singular  merits.  One 
that  its  founder,  its  prophet,  Don  Quixote — not  Cer 
vantes — probably  wasn't  a  real  man  of  flesh  and  blood 
at  all,  indeed  we  suspect  that  he  was  pure  fiction. 
And  the  other  merit  would  be  that  this  prophet  was 
a  ridiculous  prophet,  people's  butt  and  laughing  stock. 

"What  we  need  most  is  the  valor  to  face  ridicule. 
Ridicule  is  the  arm  of  all  the  miserable  barbers,  bach- 

[221] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

elors,  parish  priests,  canons  and  dukes  who  keep  hidden 
the  sepulchre  of  the  Knight  of  Madness,  Knight  who 
made  all  the  world  laugh  but  never  cracked  a  joke. 
He  had  too  great  a  soul  to  bring  forth  jokes.  They 
laughed  at  his  seriousness. 

"Begin  then,  friend,  to  do  the  Peter  the  Hermit  and 
call  people  to  join  you,  to  join  us,  and  let  us  all  go 
win  back  the  sepulchre  even  if  we  don't  know  where 
it  is.  The  crusade  itself  will  reveal  to  us  the  sacred 
place. 

•  ••••• 
"Start  marching !    Where  are  you  going?    The  star 

will  tell  you:  to  the  sepulchre!  What  shall  we  do  on 
the  road  while  we  march?  What?  Fight !  Fight,  and 
how? 

"How?  If  you  find  a  man  lying?  Shout  in  his  face: 
'lie!*  and  forward!  If  you  find  a  man  stealing,  shout: 
'thief!'  and  forward!  If  you  find  a  man  babbling 
asininities,  to  whom  the  crowd  listens  open-mouthed, 
shout  at  them  all:  'idiots!'  and  forward,  always  for 
ward! 

•  ••••• 

"To  the  march  then!  And  throw  out  of  the  sacred 
squadron  all  those  who  begin  to  study  the  step  and 
its  length  and  its  rhythm.  Above  everything,  throw 
out  all  those  who  fuss  about  this  business  of  rhythm. 
They'll  turn  the  squadron  into  a  quadrille  and  the 

[222] 


A  Funeral  in  Madrid 

march  into  a  dance.     Away  with  them!    Let  them  go 
off  somewhere  else  to  sing  the  flesh. 

"Those  who  try  to  turn  the  squadron  on  the  march 
into  a  dancing  quadrille  call  themselves  and  each  other 
poets.  But  they're  not.  They're  something  else.  They 
only  go  to  the  sepulchre  out  of  curiosity,  to  see  what 
it's  like,  looking  for  a  new  sensation,  and  to  amuse 
themselves  along  the  road.  Away  with  them! 

"It's  these  that  with  their  indulgence  of  Bohemians 
contribute  to  maintain  cowardice  and  lies  and  all  the 
weaknesses  that  flood  us.  When  they  preach  liberty 
they  only  think  of  one:  that  of  disposing  of  their 
neighbor's  wife.  All  is  sensuality  with  them.  They 
even  fall  in  love  sensually  with  ideas,  with  great  ideas. 
They  are  incapable  of  marrying  a  great  and  pure  idea 
and  breeding  a  family  with  it;  they  only  flirt  with 
ideas.  They  want  them  as  mistresses,  sometimes  just 
for  the  night.  Away  with  them! 

"If  a  man  wants  to  pluck  some  flower  or  other  along 
the  path  that  smiles  from  the  fringe  of  grass,  let 
him  pluck  it,  but  without  breaking  ranks,  without 
dropping  out  of  the  squadron  of  which  the  leader  must 
always  keep  his  eyes  on  the  flaming  sonorous  star.  But 
if  he  put  the  little  flower  in  the  strap  above  his 
cuirass,  not  to  look  at  it  himself,  but  for  others  to 
look  at,  away  with  him!  Let  him  go  with  his  flower 
in  his  buttonhole  and  dance  somewhere  else. 

[223] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

"Look,  friend,  if  you  want  to  accomplish  your  mis 
sion  and  serve  your  country  you  must  make  yourself 
unpleasant  to  the  sensitive  boys  who  only  see  the  world 
through  the  eyes  of  their  sweethearts.  Or  through 
something  worse.  Let  your  words  be  strident  and  rasp 
ing  in  their  ears. 

"The  squadron  must  only  stop  at  night,  near  a  wood 
or  under  the  lee  of  a  mountain.  There  they  will  pitch 
their  tents  and  the  crusaders  will  wash  their  feet,  and 
sup  off  what  their  women  have  prepared,  then  they 
will  beget  a  son  on  them  and  kiss  them  and  go  to  sleep 
to  begin  the  march  again  the  following  day.  And 
when  someone  dies  they  will  leave  him  on  the  edge  of 
the  road  with  his  armor  on  him,  at  the  mercy  of  the 
crows.  Let  the  dead  take  the  trouble  to  bury  the 
dead." 

Instead  of  the  rationalists  and  humanists  of 
the  North,  Unamuno's  idols  are  the  mystics  and 
saints  and  sensualists  of  Castile,  hard  stalwart 
men  who  walked  with  God,  Loyola,  Torquemada, 
Pizarro,  Narvaez,  who  governed  with  whips  and 
thumbscrews  and  drank  death  down  greedily  like 
heady  wine.  He  is  excited  by  the  amorous  mad 
ness  of  the  mysticism  of  Santa  Teresa  and  San 
Juan  de  la  Cruz.  His  religion  is  paradoxical,  un- 

[224] 


A  Funeral  in  Madrid 

reasonable,  of  faith  alone,  full  of  furious  yearn 
ing  other-worldliness.  His  style,  it  follows  per 
force,  is  headlong,  gruff ,  redundant,  full  of  tre 
mendous  pounding  phrases.  There  is  a  vigorous 
angry  insistence  about  his  dogmas  that  makes  his 
essays  unforgettable,  even  if  one  objects  as  vio 
lently  as  I  do  to  his  asceticism  and  death-worship. 
There  is  an  anarchic  fury  about  his  crying  in 
the  wilderness  that  will  win  many  a  man  from 
the  fleshpots  and  chain  gangs. 

In  the  apse  of  the  old  cathedral  of  Salamanca 
is  a  fresco  of  the  Last  Judgment,  perhaps  by  the 
Castilian  painter  Gallegos.  Over  the  retablo  on 
a  black  ground  a  tremendous  figure  of  the  aveng 
ing  angel  brandishes  a  sword  while  behind  him 
unrolls  the  scroll  of  the  Dies  Irae  and  huddled 
clusters  of  plump  little  naked  people  fall  away 
into  space  from  under  his  feet.  There  are  mo 
ments  in  "Del  Sentimiento  Trdgico  de  la  Vida* 
and  in  the  "Vida  de  Don  Quijote  y  Sancho" 
when  in  the  rolling  earthy  Castilian  phrases  one 
can  feel  the  brandishing  of  the  sword  of  that  very 
angel.  Not  for  nothing  does  Unamuno  live  in 
the  rust  and  saffron-colored  town  of  Salamanca 

[225] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

in  the  midst  of  bare  red  hills  that  bulge  against 
an  enormous  flat  sky  in  which  the  clouds  look  like 
piles  of  granite,  like  floating  cathedrals,  they  are 
so  solid,  heavy,  ominous.  A  country  where  bar 
renness  and  the  sweep  of  cold  wind  and  the  lash 
of  strong  wine  have  made  people's  minds  ingrow 
into  the  hereafter,  where  the  clouds  have  been 
tramped  by  the  angry  feet  of  the  destroying 
angel.  A  Patmos  for  a  new  Apocalypse.  Una- 
muno  is  constantly  attacking  sturdily  those  who 
clamor  for  the  modernization,  Europeanization 
of  Spanish  life  and  Spanish  thought:  he  is  the 
counterpoise  to  the  northward-yearning  apostles 
of  Giner  de  los  Rios. 

In  an  essay  in  one  of  the  volumes  published 
by  the  Eesidencia  de  Estudiantes  he  wrote: 

"As  can  be  seen  I  proceed  by  what  they  call  ar 
bitrary  affirmations,  without  documentation,  without 
proof,  outside  of  a  modern  European  logic,  disdain 
ful  of  its  methods. 

"Perhaps.  I  want  no  other  method  than  that  of 
passion,  and  when  my  breast  swells  with  disgust,  re 
pugnance,  sympathy  or  disdain,  I  let  the  mouth  speak 
the  bitterness  of  the  heart,  and  let  the  words  come 
as  they  come. 

[226] 


A  Funeral  in  Madrid 

"We  Spaniards  are,  they  say,  arbitrary  charlatans, 
who  fill  up  with  rhetoric  the  gaps  in  logic,  who  sub 
tilize  with  more  or  less  ingenuity,  but  uselessly,  who 
lack  the  sense  of  coherence,  with  scholastic  souls, 
casuists  and  all  that. 

"I've  heard  similar  things  said  of  Augustine,  the 
great  African,  soul  of  fire  that  spilt  itself  in  leaping 
waves  of  rhetoric,  twistings  of  the  phrase,  antithesis, 
paradoxes  and  ingenuities.  Saint  Augustine  was  a 
Gongorine  and  a  conceptualist  at  the  same  time,  which 
makes  me  think  that  Gongorism  and  conceptualism 
are  the  most  natural  forms  of  passion  and  vehemence. 

"The  great  African,  the  great  ancient  African !  Here 
is  an  expression — ancient  African — that  one  can  op 
pose  to  modern  European,  and  that's  worth  as  much  at 
least.  African  and  ancient  were  Saint  Augustine  and 
Tertullian.  And  why  shouldn't  we  say:  We  must 
make  ourselves  ancient  African-style'  or  else  'We  must 
make  ourselves  African  ancient-style.' ' 

The  typical  tree  of  Castile  is  the  encina,  a  kind 
of  live-oak  that  grows  low  with  dense  bluish  foli 
age  and  a  ribbed,  knotted  and  contorted  trunk; 
it  always  grows  singly  and  on  dry  hills.  On  the 
roads  one  meets  lean  men  with  knotted  hands 
and  brown  sun-wizened  faces  that  seem  brothers 
to  the  encinas  of  their  country.  The  thought  of 

[227] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

Unamuno,  emphatic,  lonely,  contorted,  ham 
mered  into  homely  violent  phrases,  oak-tough, 
oak-twisted,  is  brother  to  the  men  on  the  roads 
and  to  the  encinas  on  the  hills  of  Castile. 

This  from  the  end  of  "Del  Sentimiento  Trdgi- 
co  de  la  Vida": 

"And  in  this  critical  century,  Don  Quixote  has  also 
contaminated  himself  with  criticism,  and  he  must 
charge  against  himself,  victim  of  intellectualism  and 
sentimentalism,  who  when  he  is  most  sincere  appears 
most  affected.  The  poor  man  wants  to  rationalize  the 
irrational,  and  irrationalize  the  rational.  And  he  falls 
victim  of  the  inevitable  despair  of  a  rationalism  cen 
tury,  of  which  the  greatest  victims  were  Tolstoy  and 
Nietzsche.  Out  of  despair  he  enters  into  the  heroic 
fury  of  that  Quixote  of  thought  who  broke  out  of  the 
cloister,  Giordano  Bruno,  and  makes  himself  awakener 
of  sleeping  souls,  'dormitantiiim  animorum  excubitor,* 
as  the  ex-Dominican  says  of  himself,  he  who  wrote: 
'Heroic  love  is  proper  to  superior  natures  called  in 
sane — insane,  not  because  they  do  not  know — non  sanno 
— but  because  they  know  too  much — soprasanno — .' 

"But  Bruno  believed  in  the  triumph  of  his  doctrines, 
or  at  least  at  the  foot  of  his  statue  on  the  Campo 
dei  Fiori,  opposite  the  Vatican,  they  have  put  that  it 
is  offered  by  the  century  he  had  divined — 'il  secolo  da 

[228] 


A  Funeral  in  Madrid 

lui  divinato.9  But  our  Don  Quixote,  the  resurrected, 
internal  Don  Quixote,  does  not  believe  that  his  doctrines 
will  triumph  in  the  world,  because  they  are  not  his. 
And  it  is  better  that  they  should  not  triumph.  If 
they  wanted  to  make  Don  Quixote  king  he  would  retire 
alone  to  the  hilltop,  fleeing  the  crowds  of  king-makers 
and  king-killers,  as  did  Christ  when,  after  the  miracle 
of  the  loaves  and  fishes,  they  wanted  to  proclaim  him 
king.  He  left  the  title  of  king  to  be  put  above  the 
cross. 

"What  is,  then,  the  new  mission  of  Don  Quixote  in 
this  world?  To  cry,  to  cry  in  the  wilderness.  For 
the  wilderness  hears  although  men  do  not  hear,  and 
one  day  will  turn  into  a  sonorous  wood,  and  that 
solitary  voice  that  spreads  in  the  desert  like  seed  will 
sprout  into  a  gigantic  cedar  that  will  sing  with  a 
hundred  thousand  tongues  an  eternal  hosanna  to  the 
Lord  of  life  and  death." 


[2291 


XVII:  Toledo 

LYAEUS,  you've  found  it." 
"Her,  you  mean." 

"No,  the  essence,  the  gesture." 

"I  carry  no  butterfly  net." 

The  sun  blazed  in  a  halo  of  heat  about  their 
heads.  Both  sides  of  the  straight  road  olive 
trees  contorted  gouty  trunks  as  they  walked  past. 
On  a  bank  beside  a  quietly  grazing  donkey  a 
man  was  asleep  wrapped  in  a  brown  blanket.  Oc 
casionally  a  little  grey  bird  twittered  encourag 
ingly  from  the  telegraph  wires.  When  the  wind 
came  there  was  a  chill  of  winter  and  wisps  of 
cloud  drifted  across  the  sun  and  a  shiver  of  silver 
ran  along  the  olive  groves. 

"Tel,"  cried  Lyaeus  after  a  pause,  "maybe  I 
have  found  it.  Maybe  you  are  right.  You 
should  have  been  with  me  last  night." 

"What  happened  last  night?"  As  a  wave  of 
bitter  envy  swept  over  him  Telemachus  saw  for  a 

[230] 


Toledo 

moment  the  face  of  his  mother  Penelope,  brows 
contracted  with  warning,  white  hand  raised  in 
admonition.  For  a  fleeting  second  the  memory 
of  his  quest  brushed  through  the  back  of  his  mind. 
But  Lyaeus  was  talking. 

"Nothing  much  happened.  There  were  a  few 
things.  ...  O  this  is  wonderful."  He  waved 
a  clenched  fist  about  his  head.  "The  finest  peo 
ple,  Tel!  You  never  saw  such  people,  Tel.  They 
gave  me  a  tambourine.  Here  it  is;  wait  a  min 
ute."  He  placed  the  bag  he  carried  on  his  shoul 
der  on  top  of  a  milestone  and  untied  its  mouth. 
When  he  pulled  the  tambourine  out  it  was  full  of 
figs.  "Look,  pocket  these.  I  taught  her  to  write 
her  name  on  the  back;  see,  Tilar.'  She  didn't 
know  how  to  write." 

Telemachus  involuntarily  cleared  his  throat. 

"It  was  the  finest  dive  .  .  .  Part  house,  part 
cave.  We  all  roared  in  and  there  was  the  fun 
niest  little  girl  .  .  .  Lot  of  other  people,  fat 
women,  but  my  eyes  were  in  a  highly  selective 
state.  She  was  very  skinny  with  enormous  black 
eyes,  doe's  eyes,  timid  as  a  dog's.  She  had  a  fat 
pink  puppy  in  her  lap." 

[231] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

"But  I  meant  something  in  line,  movement, 
eternal,  not  that." 

"There  are  very  few  gestures,"  said  Lyaeus. 

They  walked  along  in  silence. 

"I  am  tired,"  said  Lyaeus;  "at  least  let's  stop 
in  here.  I  see  a  bush  over  the  door." 

"Why  stop?    We  are  nearly  there." 

"Why  go  on?" 

"We  want  to  get  to  Toledo,  don't  we?" 

"Why?" 

"Because  we  started  for  there." 

"No  reason  at  all,"  said  Lyaeus  with  a  laugh 
as  he  went  in  the  door  of  the  wineshop. 

When  they  came  out  they  found  Don  Alonso 
waiting  for  them,  holding  his  horse  by  the  bridle. 

"The  Spartans,"  he  said  with  a  smile,  "never 
drank  wine  on  the  march." 

"How  far  are  we  from  Toledo?"  asked  Tele- 
machus.  "It  was  nice  of  you  to  wait  for  us." 

"About  a  league,  five  kilometers,  nothing.  .  .  . 
I  wanted  to  see  your  faces  when  you  first  saw  the 
town.  I  think  you  will  appreciate  it." 

"Let's  walk  fast,"  said  Telemachus.  "There 
are  some  things  one  doesn't  want  to  wait  for." 

[232] 


Toledo 

"It  will  be  sunset  and  the  whole  town  will  be  on 
the  paseo  in  front  of  the  hospital  of  San  Juan 
Bautista.  .  .  .  This  is  Sunday  of  Carnival; 
people  will  be  dressed  up  in  masks  and  very 
noisy.  It's  a  day  on  which  they  play  tricks  on 
strangers." 

"Here's  the  trick  they  played  me  at  the  last 
town,"  said  Lyaeus  agitating  his  bag  of  figs. 
"Let's  eat  some.  I'm  sure  the  Spartans  ate  figs 
on  the  road.  Will  Rosinante, — I  mean  will  your 
horse  eat  them?"  He  put  his  hand  with  some 
figs  on  it  under  the  horse's  mouth.  The  horse 
sniffed  noisily  out  of  black  nostrils  dappled  with 
pink  and  then  reached  for  the  figs.  Lyaeus 
wiped  his  hand  on  the  seat  of  his  pants  and  they 
proceeded. 

"Toledo  is  symbolically  the  soul  of  Spain," 
began  Don  Alonso  after  a  few  moments  of  si 
lent  walking.  "By  that  I  mean  that  through  the 
many  S pains  you.  have  seen  and  will  see  is  every 
where  an  undercurrent  of  fantastic  tragedy, 
Greco  on  the  one  hand,  Goya  on  the  other,  Mora 
les,  Gallegos,  a  great  flame  of  despair  amid 
dust,  rags,  ulcers,  human  life  rising  in  a  sudden 

[233] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

pgean  out  of  desolate  abandoned  dun-colored 
spaces.  To  me,  Toledo  expresses  the  supreme 
beauty  of  that  tragic  farce  .  .  .  And  the  apex, 
the  victory,  the  deathlessness  of  it  is  in  El  Greco. 
.  .  .  How  strange  it  is  that  it  should  be  that 
Cypriote  who  lived  in  such  Venetian  state  in  a 
great  house  near  the  abandoned  synagogue, 
scandalizing  us  austere  Spaniards  by  the  sounds 
of  revelry  and  unabashed  music  that  came  from 
it  at  meal-times,  making  pert  sayings  under  the 
nose  of  humorless  visitors  like  Pacheco,  living 
solitary  in  a  country  where  he  remained  to  his 
death  misunderstood  and  alien  and  where  two 
centuries  thought  of  him  along  with  Don  Quixote 
as  a  madman, — how  strange  that  it  should  be  he 
who  should  express  most  flamingly  all  that  was 
imperturbable  in  Toledo  ...  I  have  often  won 
dered  whether  that  fiery  vitality  of  spirit  that  we 
feel  in  El  Greco,  that  we  felt  in  my  generation 
when  I  was  young,  that  I  see  occasionally  in  the 
young  men  of  your  time,  has  become  conscious 
only  because  it  is  about  to  be  smothered  in  the 
great  advancing  waves  of  European  banality.  I 
was  thinking  the  other  day  that  perhaps  states  of 

[234] 


Toledo 

life  only  became  conscious  once  their  intensity 
was  waning." 

"But  most  of  the  intellectuals  I  met  in  Mad 
rid,"  put  in  Telemachus,  "seemed  enormously 
anxious  for  subways  and  mechanical  progress, 
seemed  to  think  that  existence  could  be  made  per 
fect  by  slot-machines." 

"They  are  anxious  to  hold  stock  in  the  sub 
way  and  slot-machine  enterprises  that  they  may 
have  more  money  to  un Spanish  themselves  in 
Paris  .  .  .  but  let  us  not  talk  of  that.  From  the 
next  turn  in  the  road,  round  that  little  hill,  we 
shall  see  Toledo." 

Don  Alonso  jumped  on  his  horse,  and  Lyaeus 
and  Telemachus  doubled  the  speed  of  their 
stride. 

First  above  the  bulge  of  reddish  saffron  striped 
with  dark  of  a  plowed  field  they  saw  a  weather 
cock,  then  under  it  the  slate  cap  of  a  tower.  "The 
Alcazar,"  said  Don  Alonso.  The  road  turned 
away  and  olive  trees  hid  the  weathercock.  At  the 
next  bend  the  towers  were  four,  strongly  but 
tressing  a  square  building  where  on  the  western 
windows  glinted  reflections  of  sunset.  As  they 

[235] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

walked  more  towers,  dust  colored,  and  domes  and 
the  spire  of  ^a  cathedral,  greenish,  spiky  like  the 
tail  of  a  pickerel,  jutted  to  the  right  of  the  cita 
del.  The  road  dipped  again,  passed  some  white 
houses  where  children  sat  in  the  doorways;  from 
the  inner  rooms  came  a  sound  of  frying  oil  and 
a  pungence  of  cistus-twigs  burning.  Starting  up 
the  next  rise  that  skirted  a  slope  planted  with 
almond  trees  they  caught  sight  of  a  castle, 
rounded  towers,  built  of  rough  grey  stone,  joined 
by  crenellated  walls  that  appeared  occasionally 
behind  the  erratic  lacework  of  angular  twigs  on 
which  here  and  there  a  cluster  of  pink  flowers 
had  already  come  into  bloom.  At  the  summit 
was  a  wineshop  with  mules  tethered  against  the 
walls,  and  below  the  Tagus  and  the  great  bridge, 
and  Toledo. 

Against  the  grey  and  ochre-streaked  theatre 
of  the  Cigarrales  were  piled  masses  of  buttressed 
wall  that  caught  the  orange  sunset  light  on  many 
tall  plane  surfaces  rising  into  crenellations  and 
square  towers  and  domes  and  slate-capped  spires 
above  a  litter  of  yellowish  tile  roofs  that  fell  away 
in  terraces  from  the  highest  points  and  sloped 

[236] 


Toledo 

outside  the  walls  towards  the  river  and  the  piers 
from  which  sprang  the  enormous  arch  of  the 
bridge.  The  shadows  were  blue-green  and  violet. 
A  pale  cobalt  haze  of  supperfires  hung  over  the 
quarters  near  the  river.  As  they  started  down 
the  hill  towards  the  heavy  pile  of  San  Juan 
Bautista,  that  stood  under  its  broad  tiled  dome 
outside  the  nearest  gate,  a  great  volley  of  bell- 
ringing  swung  about  their  ears.  A  donkey 
brayed;  there  was  a  sound  of  shouting  from  the 
town. 

"Here  we  are,  gentlemen,  I'll  look  for  you  to 
morrow  at  the  fonda"  shouted  Don  Alonso.  He 
took  off  his  hat  and  galloped  towards  the  gate, 
leaving  Telemachus  and  Lyaeus  standing  by  the 
roadside  looking  out  over  the  city. 

Beyond  the  zinc  bar  was  an  irregular  room 
with  Nile-green  walls  into  which  light  still  fil 
tered  through  three  little  round  arches  high  up 
on  one  side.  In  a  corner  were  some  hogsheads  of 
wine,  in  another  small  tables  with  three-legged 
stools.  From  outside  came  the  distant  braying 
of  a  brass  band  and  racket  of  a  street  full  of 

[237] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

people,  laughter,  and  the  occasional  shivering 
jangle  of  a  tambourine.  Lyaeus  had  dropped 
onto  a  stool  and  spread  his  feet  out  before  him 
on  the  tiled  floor. 

"Never  walked  so  far  in  my  life,"  he  said, 
"my  toes  are  pulverized,  pulverized!"  He  leaned 
over  and  prilled  off  his  shoes.  There  were  holes 
in  his  socks.  He  pulled  them  off  in  turn,  and 
started  wiggling  his  toes  meditatively.  His  an 
kles  were  grimed  with  dust. 

"Well  .  .  ."  began  Telemachus. 

The  padron,  a  lean  man  with  moustaches  and  a 
fancy  yellow  vest  which  he  wore  unbuttoned  over 
a  lavender  shirt,  brought  two  glasses  of  dense 
black  wine. 

"You  have  walked  a  long  way?"  he  asked, 
looking  with  interest  at  Lyaeus'  feet. 

"From  Madrid." 

"ICarai!" 

"Not  all  in  one  day." 

"You  are  sailors  going  to  rejoin  your  ship  in 
Sevilla."  The  padron  looked  from  one  to  another 
with  a  knowing  expression,  twisting  his  mouth 
so  that  one  of  the  points  of  his  moustache  slanted 

[238] 


Toledo 

towards  the  ceiling  and  the  other  towards  the 
floor. 

"Not  exactly.  .  ." 

Another  man  drew  up  his  chair  to  their  table, 
first  taking  off  his  wide  cap  and  saying  gravely: 
"Con  permiso  de  ustedes."  His  broad,  slightly 
flabby  face  was  very  pale;  the  eyes  under  his 
sparse  blonde  eyelashes  were  large  and  grey. 
He  put  his  two  hands  on  their  shoulders  so  as  to 
draw  their  heads  together  and  said  in  a  whis 
per: 

"You  aren't  deserters,  are  you?" 

"No." 

"I  hoped  you  were.  I  might  have  helped  you. 
I  escaped  from  prison  in  Barcelona  a  week  ago. 
I  am  a  syndicalist." 

"Have  a  drink,"  cried  Lyaeus.  "Another 
glass  .  .  .  And  we  can  let  you  have  some  money 
if  you  need  it,  too,  if  you  want  to  get  out  of  the 
country." 

The  padron  brought  the  wine  and  retired  dis 
creetly  to  a  chair  beside  the  bar  from  which  he 
beamed  at  them  with  almost  religious  approba 
tion. 

[239] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

"You  are  comrades?" 

"Of  those  who  break  out,"  said  Lyaeus  flush 
ing.  "What  about  the  progress  of  events? 
When  do  you  think  the  pot  will  boil  over?" 

"Soon  or  never,"  said  the  syndicalist  .  .  . 
"That  is  never  in  our  lifetime.  We  are  being 
buried  under  industrialism  like  the  rest  of  Eu 
rope.  Our  people,  our  comrades  even,  are  fast 
getting  the  bourgeois  mentality.  There  is  dan 
ger  that  we  shall  lose  everything  we  have  fought 
for  .  .  .  You  see,  if  we  could  only  have  captured 
the  means  of  production  when  the  system  was 
young  and  weak,  we  could  have  developed  it 
slowly  for  our  benefit,  made  the  machine  the 
slave  of  man.  Every  day  we  wait  makes  it  more 
difficult.  It  is  a  race  as  to  whether  this  penin 
sula  will  be  captured  by  communism  or  capital 
ism.  It  is  still  neither  one  nor  the  other,  in  its 
soul."  He  thumped  his  clenched  fist  against  his 
chest. 

"How  long  were  you  in  prison?" 

"Only  a  month  this  time,  but  if  they  catch  me 
it  will  be  bad.  They  won't  catch  me." 

He  spoke  quietly  without  gestures,  occasionally 
[240] 


Toledo 

rolling  an  unlit  cigarette  between  his  brown 
fingers. 

"Hadn't  we  better  go  out  before  it  gets  quite 
dark?"  said  Telemachus. 

"When  shall  I  see  you  again?"  said  Lyaeus  to 
the  syndicalist. 

"Oh,  we'll  meet  if  you  stay  in  Toledo  a  few 
days.  .  .  ." 

Lyaeus  got  to  his  feet  and  took  the  man  by 
the  arm. 

"Look,  let  me  give  you  some  money;  won't  you 
be  wanting  to  go  to  Portugal?" 

The  man  flushed  and  shook  his  head. 

"If  our  opinions  coincided.  .  .  ." 

"I  agree  with  all  those  who  break  out,"  said 
Lyaeus. 

"That's  not  the  same,  my  friend." 

They  shook  hands  and  Telemachus  and  Lyaeus 
went  out  of  the  tavern. 

Two  carriages  hung  with  gaudily  embroidered 
shawls,  full  of  dominos  and  pierrots  and  harle 
quins  who  threw  handfuls  of  confetti  at  people 
along  the  sidewalks,  clattered  into  town  through 
the  dark  arches  of  the  gate.  Telemachus  got 

[241] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

some  confetti  in  his  mouth.  A  crowd  of  little 
children  danced  about  him  jeering  as  he  stood 
spluttering  on  the  curbstone.  Lyaeus  took  him 
by  the  arm  and  drew  him  along  the  street  after 
the  carriages,  bent  double  with  laughter.  This 
irritated  Telemaichus  who  tore  his  arm  away 
suddenly  and  made  off  with  long  strides  up  a  dark 
street. 

A  half -waned  moon  shone  through  the  perfora 
tions  in  a  round  terra-cotta  chimney  into  the 
street's  angular  greenish  shadow.  From  some 
where  came  the  seethe  of  water  over  a  dam.  Tele- 
machus  was  leaning  against  a  damp  wall,  tired 
and  exultant,  looking  vaguely  at  the  oval  of  a 
woman's  face  half  surmised  behind  the  bars  of 
an  upper  window,  when  he  heard  a  clatter  of  un 
steady  feet  on  the  cobbles  and  Lyaeus  appeared, 
reeling  a  little,  his  lips  moist,  his  eyebrows  raised 
in  an  expression  of  drunken  jollity. 

"Lyaeus,  I  am  very  happy,"  cried  Telemachus 
stepping  forward  to  meet  his  friend.  "Walking 
about  here  in  these  empty  zigzag  streets  I  have 
suddenly  felt  familiar  with  it  all,  as  if  it  were  a 

[242] 


Toledo 

part  of  me,  as  if  I  had  soaked  up  some  essence 
out  of  it." 

"Silly  that  about  essences,  gestures,  Tel,  silly. 
.  .  .  Awake  all  you  need."  Lyaeus  stood  on  a 
little  worn  stone  that  kept  wheels  off  the  corner 
of  the  house  where  the  street  turned  and  waved 
his  arms.  "Awake !  Dormitant  animorum  eoccubi- 
tor.  .  .  .  That's  not  right.  Latin's  no  good. 
Means  a  fellow  who  says :  'wake  up,  you  son  of  a 
gun.'  " 

"Oh,  you're  drunk.  It's  much  more  important 
than  that.  It's  like  learning  to  swim.  For  a  long 
time  you  flounder  about,  it's  unpleasant  and  gets 
up  your  nose  and  you  choke.  Then  all  at  once 
you  are  swimming  like  a  duck.  That's  how  I 
feel  about  all  this.  .  .  .  The  challenge  was  that 
woman  in  Madrid,  dancing,  dancing.  .  .  ." 

"Tel,  there  are  things  too  good  to  talk  about. 
.  .  .  Look,  I'm  like  St.  Simeon  Stylites." 
Lyaeus  lifted  one  leg,  then  the  other,  waving  his 
arms  like  a  tight-rope  walker. 

"When  I  left  you  I  walked  out  over  the  other 
bridge,  the  bridge  of  St.  Martin  and  climbed. . . ." 

[243] 


Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again 

"Shut  up,  I  think  I  hear  a  girl  giggling  up  in 
the  window  there." 

Lyaeus  stood  up  very  straight  on  his  column 
and  threw  a  kiss  up  into  the  darkness.  The 
giggling  turned  to  a  shrill  laughter;  a  head 
craned  out  from  a  window  opposite.  Lyaeus 
beckoned  with  both  hands. 

"Never  mind  about  them.  .  .  .  Look  out, 
somebody  threw  something.  .  .  .  Oh,  it's  an  or 
ange.  ...  I  want  to  tell  you  how  I  felt  the 
gesture.  I  had  climbed  up  on  one  of  the  hills  of 
the  Cigarrales  and  was  looking  at  the  silhouette 
of  the  town  so  black  against  the  stormy  marbled 
sky.  The  moon  hadn't  risen  yet.  .  .  .  Let's 
move  away  from  here." 

"Yen,  flor  de  mi  corazon"  shouted  Lyaeus  to 
wards  the  upper  window. 

"A  flock  of  goats  was  passing  on  the  road  be 
low,  and  from  somewhere  came  the  tremendous 
lilt  of.  .  .  ." 

"Heads !"  cried  Lyaeus  throwing  himself  round 
an  angle  in  the  wall. 

Telemachus  looked  up,  his  mind  full  of  his 
mother  Penelope's  voice  saying  reproachfully: 

[244] 


Toledo 

"You  might  have  been  murdered  in  that  dark 
alley."  A  girl  was  leaning  from  the  window, 
shaken  with  laughter,  taking  aim  with  a  bucket 
she  swung  with  both  hands. 

"Stop,"  cried  Telemachus,  "it's  the  other " 

As  he  spoke  a  column  of  cold  water  struck  his 
head,  knocked  his  breath  out,  drenched  him. 

"Speaking  of  gestures "  whispered  Lyaeus 

breathlessly  from  the  doorway  where  he  was 
crouching,  and  the  street  was  filled  with  uncon 
trollable  shrieking  laughter. 


THE  END 


[245] 


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2U3828 


Dos  Passes,   J. 
Rosinante  to  the 


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